Metamorphosis
by Midnight Chrysanthemum
Summary: Another Black Ghost plot stretches the sanity of one of the cyborgs to the limit...
1. Inception

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Well, I don't own the rights to the Cyborg 009 series… any of them. But, this idea hit and would not be denied, so I went ahead and plotted it out. Hopefully other Cyborg 009 fans will enjoy this.

~ * Inception * ~

It was a frightful assignment, one that for most was akin to a death sentence.

Retrieval of the renegade prototype cyborgs: a high-priority, high-profile, high-risk undertaking. Though several attempts had come close, and there were partial victories at times -- even moments where it appeared success had finally been attained -- every time the results turned out the same: failure.

Failure was not an acceptable outcome in the Black Ghost Organization. Those who, through some minor miracle, survived such a close encounter with the nine defectors soon found their careers coming to a grisly end.

So perhaps it was not quite so surprising, then, that there were few Black Ghost employees who actively volunteered to be put on the ongoing project to defeat and destroy the runaway 00-series prototypes. Fewer still were exactly thrilled if they found themselves assigned to the task -- though, of course, such grievances were kept private. Speaking against one's superior was another quick way to cut one's career dramatically short.

Doctor Tenkan had received the order four hours, thirty-eight minutes, and six seconds ago. Already the grains of time seemed to be slipping through his fingers entirely too swiftly, counting down the moments until his eventual demise.

A thin sheen of sweat glistened on the scientist's wrinkled forehead, his deeply lined face set in a cracked mask of forced neutrality. The only source of illumination in his locked chambers was the computer screen before him. The glow reflected off his spectacles, highlighting the smudges and specks of dusts that had accumulated on the curved surfaces. Absently he removed them, brushing the glasses off against the front of his lab coat before replacing them on his sharp, broken nose.

At the press of a key, the image on the monitor changed from rows of neatly arranged data to pictures of a young man. One of his eyes was obscured by a curved set of dark brown bangs. The pictures ranged from basic front, back and side shots of the youth -- as well as detailed charts of the complex melding of circuitry and biology residing just underneath his skin -- to photographs of the subject in action, both in motion and at rest.

Doctor Tenkan did not need to read the heading at the top of the screen or the lines of information arranged in neat little text boxes alongside the pictures. He knew full well that the subject was escaped prototype 009. Knowledge of the identities, appearance, and abilities of the renegades was fairly common among the ranks. Even the lowliest of footsoldiers were filled in on the basics, so as to understand what they were supposed to be looking for.

More often, however, that knowledge proved to be little more than the final nail in the coffin for those unfortunate enough to actually encounter the cyborgs.

The scientist's finger twitched, and the profile changed, the focus of the photographs changing to those of a small child, a mere babe with a tuft of aquamarine hair covering the upper half of his chubby face. Another tap and the pictures shifted to another young man with longer, lighter colored hair and a beak-like nose. Again, and now a young blonde woman was displayed.

Doctor Tenkan's gaze traveled across the screen time and again, tracing the same tired pattern, gleaning through the pictures and text before his finger once again pressed the proper key to bring up the next set of files. Soon, the displays began to repeat as he reached the first young man's data. Still, he continued his pattern, cycling endlessly through the profiles, dark gray eyes continuously scanning through the gathered intelligence.

Sooner or later, he was certain, the idea he was searching for would hit. There _had_ to be something he could use for a springboard, because the alternative was… not worth considering. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of what failure would bring. That was practically a self-fulfilling prophecy. If he dwelled on the consequences of not completing this mission satisfactorily, then the chances of such an outcome would rise dramatically.

The odds and the data seemed stacked enough against him as it was without any encouragement from self-doubts.

So he continued to scroll through the files, scanning the shifting, changing faces before him for answers. From a button-nosed baby to a hawkish young rake, from a sad-eyed woman to a man with liquid blue eyes, from a muscle-bound giant to a rotund fire-breather, from a middle-aged actor to a hard-faced fighter, to…

Abruptly the rhythm ceased, one raised finger hovering just above the keyboard. Behind twin panes of thin, curved glass, tired gray eyes closed and reopened in a slow blink. Then, slowly, the upraised digit shifted and pressed down another key, calling up the previous file. The doctor's gaze traveled its familiar, well-worn route: down the screen. Up again. Then pause, fixating on one particular pair of pictures before focusing on the display at large.

For the first time in the six hours, twenty-five minutes, and seven seconds since word of his new assignment had been handed down to him, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Doctor Tenkan's thinly pressed lips.

Inspiration had finally struck. Though the work would undoubtedly be difficult, now, at least, he had the slightest shred of hope to hang onto: the possibility that this plan might just be the one it took to take down at least one of the cyborgs.

~ * ~

"Your serve, Pyunma!" Joe Shimamura prompted, dropping into position directly across from the Kenyan.

"Okay, get ready!"

Pyunma tossed the ball into the air, then jumped after it, smashing both fists into the dropping sphere and sending it hurtling forward. The ball coasted over the net easily, only to be intercepted by Francoise Arnoul, who let it bounce lightly off her upraised hands and back over her head, setting it up for her partner.

"Get it!" she called, almost laughing the command.

Joe needed no prompting, however; the Japanese speed demon was already behind her, and smashed the ball, sending it rocketing back over the net. Again the sphere was blocked, this time falling victim to a vicious spike by Jet.

"Incoming!"

As Joe and Francoise scrambled forward to keep the volleyball from hitting the ground, one of the game's observers couldn't keep himself from chuckling at the sight. The former actor who worked under the stage name Great Britain -- now going by the nickname "G.B." for his friends -- reclined under the shade of the sheltering trees, watching the four players send the ball back and forth over the net. From his vantage point, he could also see where Albert Heinrich had fallen asleep underneath another tree, the baby Ivan cradled against his chest. The last three members of their group, the chef Chang Changku, the giant Geronimo Junior, and the doctor Gilmore, were setting up lunch.

It was a scene taken right out of a brochure, if you ignored the fact that all ten of them hailed from starkly different communities and backgrounds. Still, there was nothing right now to suggest one of the biggest ties between their diverse group: all of them had their lives irrevocably changed by Black Ghost's cruelty. Nine of their number had been turned into cyborgs by the shadowy organization, and it was only through kinder twists of fate, luck and skill that they weren't either dead or enslaved by now.

The Englishman frowned, forcing thoughts of Black Ghost out of mind. There was no sense ruining one of their sparse, hard-won moments of peace and relaxation with ruminations on what was long in the past. Instead, he focused back upon the game, just in time to see one of Jet's hard spikes finally slip through Francoise and Joe's defenses.

"Yes!" Jet grinned and exchanged a two-handed high-five with his equally thrilled partner.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up while you can," chided Joe. He smiled good-naturedly, though his light tone already betrayed that his comment was meant in jest, scooping up the ball and stepping back to set up his serve.

It was clear they were having fun, and Britain might have been tempted to join, if it wasn't for one thing: no powers allowed. While the rule only made sense, since Joe and Jet both had special abilities that would give them somewhat unfair advantages in a game, Britain didn't see any reason to get involved if he couldn't bring a little extra excitement and added mystery to it. It would be funny to see what kind of reaction he'd get out of the others if he changed to, say, a huge tennis racket or something.

But they most likely wouldn't find it funny, and the good doctor would likely launch into a lecture later. Specifically, Lecture #27: How Dangerous it is to Use Your Powers in the Open Where Anybody Could See You, Including Possibly a Black Ghost Operative.

…There he went again, thinking about _that_ when he'd already told himself not to think about _that_ during their free time!

Besides, it was so much cooler in the shade than it was over at the court they'd set up, running back and forth trying to get under that little ball before it touched the ground and send it flying back over the net. Honestly, what were they thinking? Free time was meant for relaxing, just kicking it back and taking it easy…

He yawned and stretched his arms out, a little voice in the back of his head reminding him not to embellish the already exaggerated movement with any minute adjustments using his shapeshifting ability. Ironic, considering he was an actor: like he didn't have a natural sense of perfect judgement when it came to such matters!

"Wake me when lunch is ready," he called lazily over to where Chang and Geronimo were.

Not bothering to see if he was heard, he folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the trunk. His eyelids drooped, the scenery beginning to blur as welcome relaxation dulled his senses into the bliss of impending slumber.

Francoise went to set up another spike attempt for her partner, bringing her arms up to gently cushion the ball's arrival. Suddenly her eyes seemed to lose focus for an instant, and she let out a soft gasp, a flash of alarm flooding over her pretty features. Then the ball, without her hands to block it, completed its arc by bouncing off said pretty features and knocking her to the ground.

"Francoise!" Joe exclaimed, his startled cry chorused a half-second later by Jet and Pyunma as the other team scrambled over to their side of the net. Kneeling by his teammate's side, he gripped one of her hands with his own and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Ah…" Francoise's other hand went up to her forehead, slender fingers lacing between golden locks to gently massage the skin underneath. "I… think so…"

"Sorry 'bout that," and Jet had the good grace to look sheepish, offering a hand up to the fallen female.

"What happened, Francoise?" Pyunma asked worriedly, able to do little more than stand back and watch as the other two players helped her to her feet.

"I… thought I sensed something…"

"Like a ball hurtling toward your skull?" The corner of Jet's mouth quirked in a sarcastic half-smile at his own suggestion.

"…Maybe…" Francoise looked like she wasn't really certain herself, and maybe that she was taking Jet's jest more seriously than he'd intended.

"Are you alright, Francoise?" Doctor Gilmore called, looking over at the quartet.

"…Yes, Doctor, I'm fine." She offered a dazzling smile to reassure the others, glossing over her lingering confusion and doubt with a cute expression she'd practiced and utilized many times before. Turning it back to the trio of boys surrounding her, she added, "Come on, shall we continue?"

"Alright…if you're up to it…"

"Okay, then. …I take it for granted that didn't count as a point?" Pyunma quipped, shrugging lightheartedly.

"Pyunma!" laughed Joe.

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it. Not like we need that anyway. We'll more than make up for it," Jet sneered, waving one hand dismissively as he followed his partner back to their side of the net.

"We'll see about that!" Francoise giggled and scooped up the ball. "It's payback time now!"

Great Britain absently slapped the back of his neck as he sat back up, blinking as sleepiness warred with the tiny pinprick of pain that had blossomed at the base of his skull. Stupid mosquitoes had the worst timing sometimes, and it wasn't like he had much to offer the insects, anyway… why couldn't they just leave him alone?

However, he just rolled over slightly and went back to relaxing, brushing the lingering stinging sensation off in the same manner that Francoise laughed off her brief hesitation and subsequent close encounter with the ball. Neither thought to pay much heed to it, and why should they? Both incidents were just small little occurrences during what was shaping up to be a fine, relaxing day overall…


	2. Disruption

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See the first chapter for the disclaimer. Also, see how nicely the Cyborg 009 section appears to be filling out.

~ * Disruption * ~

"Lunch is ready, everyone!"

Chang Changku was an expert at projecting his voice just as far as he needed to get everyone's attention. It was a talent he didn't always need, as sometimes just the aroma of the meals he so painstakingly created for his teammates was enough to get their attention. However, considering four of his friends were engaged in an intense volleyball match and three others were napping in the shade, he figured it was better to go ahead and call them.

"Okay, be right there!" Joe called back, glancing over his shoulder to where the chef was standing beside the picnic table.

"Joe, look out!" warned Francoise.

Joe snapped his face forward in time to see the ball hurtling toward him.

"Whoa!"

Instinctively he raised his hands and batted it back, sending the sphere flying back the way it gave at a vicious angle toward the ground. Jet and Pyunma attempted to intercept, but the ball slammed into the ground between them.

"And that evens the score, five to five!" Francoise announced proudly.

"Man, Jet, that ball's like a guided missile in your hands!" commented Joe, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing. "Remind me to bring one along for you next time we go on a mission, okay?"

"Ha, ha, very funny," came the sarcastic reply.

"You four planning to break for lunch, then? It's not getting any warmer, you know."

"Coming, Chang!" Pyunma called. Turning to face the others, he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the table and said, "We'd better hurry before he blows a fuse over there."

"Alright, alright." Jet bent to pick up the ball, then cradled it under one arm while straightening up. Glancing back to where Great Britain was dozing, he shouted, "Hurry up, G.B.!"

The Englishman failed to rise, instead folding one arm over his face to help shield it from the sunrays that made it past the green canopy sheltering him. Jet made an annoyed noise deep in his throat.

"Come on, get up already!"

"If he doesn't get up right away, you could always practice your knockout spike on him," observed Pyunma with a dry smirk.

Jet shot the Kenyan an annoyed glance, then -- much to his teammates' surprise -- flipped the ball he was holding from under his arm to into his hand. As Pyunma, Joe and Francoise looked on, he assumed his typical serving pose, bringing his arm back in preparation.

"Hey… you wouldn't really…"

"C'mon, man, we were just joking with you!"

Jet glanced over his shoulder at the unsure expressions on Joe and Pyunma's faces. He smirked wickedly, then turned back and suddenly launched the ball forward.

"Hey--!" exclaimed Joe.

Before he could even think to dash forward and intercept the flying sphere, however, it struck its target with full force -- crashing into the tree trunk directly above Britain's head. Leaves rained down as the trunk quivered from the blow, and the Englishman sprang to his feet, eyes wide with alarm.

"Who?! What?! When?! Why?! How?! Huh…?"

Britain stopped looking around frantically when he finally noticed Jet standing in front of the others. The redhead was trying desperately to contain his laughter behind a smirk -- and wasn't doing a very good job of it. Behind him, Joe, Francoise and Pyunma had various mixtures of relief, annoyance and amusement in their expressions.

"Oh, veeeeery funny," drawled Britain, staggering to his feet while glaring at the American.

"Hey, it woke you up," Jet pointed out.

Britain glowered at him, briefly contemplating how the others might react if he booted the ball resting at his feet right back at the younger man's head. Instead of giving in to that impulse, however, he simply tapped the volleyball lightly, sending it rolling back in Jet's direction. The redhead picked it up and, tucking it safely under the crook of his arm again, turned back toward the main campground.

"Now hurry up!" he prompted, giving the Englishman a lazy little over-the-shoulder wave with his free hand even while heading back toward where the rest of their teammates were waiting. "We're not gonna wait on you forever, you know!"

Britain ignored him, spreading his arms in a lazy stretch. Blinking back the last vestiges of sleep from his half-lidded eyes, he reluctantly left his spot in the shade and trudged toward the picnic table. One hand went to cover his mouth as he yawned, the other absently straying to the back of his neck.

By chance, a couple of his fingers grazed the spot where he had been bitten earlier. Britain flinched; though the area was small, barely spanning the length of two fingertips pressed together, it was also tender to the touch. Silently, the actor gave an over-dramatic sigh: it would be just his luck that a simple mosquito bite would leave a bruise or some other little blemish.

Well, it didn't matter. It wasn't like the rest of the cyborgs spent any amount of time staring at the back of his neck on a normal basis. Besides, their usual uniforms would conveniently hide whatever mark the bite had left behind.

Hey, he'd actually found a new use for those flowing scarves they wore -- aside from the fact that they just plain looked neat.

The others had already taken their seats, and Britain could see that they weren't exactly waiting for him to join him before starting. Jet had already stuffed half of a hot dog, bun and all, in his mouth, while Francoise, sitting between him and Joe, was giving the aerodynamic cyborg a very strange look.

Not that Britain could fault him for being so eager. Their typical fare usually consisted of plenty of Chinese dishes. It wasn't that he disliked Chinese food, but eating mostly the same things week after week did make for redundancy. It was nice to see he could actually pronounce the names of all the food set out for once.

"Is something the matter, G.B.?"

Britain blinked and looked over at Albert, who was shooting him a strange glance. Belatedly, he realized the most likely reason for his concern: he'd yet to take a seat, despite the fact he was standing right by a clear spot.

"Ah… Guess I'm still shook from my rude awakening," he quickly offered in explanation, taking his place between Albert and Pyunma.

It was an acceptable enough response, and Doctor Gilmore nodded wisely before turning his attention back to his plate. Jet probably would have shot back some quip if his mouth hadn't been full. Britain would have pressed it further, but saw the lingering doubt on Albert's face and decided against it, instead grabbing a paper plate and beginning to fill it up from the spread.

The incident was quickly glossed over as the ten teammates had a leisurely lunch. Albert had handed Ivan over to Doctor Gilmore, and the tiny telepath lay contentedly in the elderly scientist's lap, sucking on his bottle. Pyunma, Jet, Francoise and Joe chatted about their game between bites, while Chang, Geronimo Junior, Albert and Britain ate more quietly.

It was the latter's uncharacteristic silence that Albert found slightly unsettling. The former performer liked to crack jokes and generally entertain his friends when he could, and his apparent disinterest in doing so, especially during such a time of relaxation, was somehow troubling.

(Maybe he's just tired,) he mused. (I probably wouldn't have been in a good mood, either, if Jet'd woke me up in the same way.)

Then, again, Jet probably wouldn't pull such a stunt on Albert, considering the fact that he was a walking arsenal. The thought caused the ghost of a smile to curl the corners of the German's mouth upward for a moment.

Francoise was giggling at some comment of Pyunma's concerning their tied game when she abruptly fell silent. The sudden cessation of her cheerful laughter caught the attention of the rest of her teammates. All eyes turned to the only female member of their group as she gently massaged her forehead with her fingertips.

"Francoise? Are you okay?" Joe questioned.

"Don't tell me your head still hurts from getting nailed earlier…" began Pyunma.

"No, it's not that," came the taut response before he could even finish his query. Francoise looked at her companions, an all-too-familiar trepidation lighting her pale eyes. "I think… we should leave. Quickly."

There was no need for her to further elaborate on the reason; her teammates were able to draw their own conclusions easily enough. They stood as one and swiftly set about gathering their things. Geronimo Junior waited only long enough for Chang to get some of their food put away before setting off with the chef and the doctor, with Gilmore carrying Ivan in his arms. Since the scientist was the most vulnerable member of their group, getting him safely to their transportation was top priority.

"Damnit, can't they ever leave us alone?" cursed Jet bitterly.

"We can always continue our game some other time," Francoise offered, fully aware that was hardly at the core of the other's anger.

The remaining six cyborgs followed their friends' path more slowly, with Joe taking point and Albert bringing up the rear. Everyone scanned the forest with suspicious glances from side to side. Francoise, with her specially enhanced senses, was especially alert, listening and looking for any sign of pursuit.

(Black Ghost…! It must be… But then… before…)

She gasped, pupils dilating, feeling the moment she had been dreading bearing down upon them.

"They're closing from behind us!" she cried, not bothering to keep her voice low, fully aware their pursuers already knew their position.

Albert dropped to a crouch, bracing his right leg with both hands. The limb unhinged at the knee, revealing gleaming metal and the bright red tip of a missile. With a burst of smoke and flame it rocketed from its formerly concealed resting-place and spiraled forward to detonate against the smooth black surface of the craft just emerging from the trees.

Any sense of accomplishment Albert might have gleaned from this, however, was considerably dampened by the sight of several more shiny black assault pods rising into view just beyond the smoldering wreckage of the first.

"Scatter!" Joe commanded, immediately following his order with a cry of, "Acceleration Mode!"

The brown-haired boy appeared to vanish in a blur, but none of his friends were alarmed. After all, they were completely used to how he 'disappeared' when using his speed -- when, in actuality, he was simply moving too fast for unenhanced senses to track. The only proof they needed of his presence were the smoking hulks of several of the drones 'mysteriously' taking damage and crashing.

Not about to be outdone, Jet launched into action as well, hurtling toward the closest cluster of pods. As he shot through the group, he muttered a few choice words under his breath about having to leave his blaster behind in the Dolphin. Joe's earlier jokes aside, he highly doubted a volleyball was going to be an effective weapon against these drones.

Pyunma had similar mutterings in his mind as he grabbed Francoise's wrist and sprinted away from the battlefield with her in tow. Without their guns, neither could offer effective assistance with the skirmish: Pyunma's specialty was underwater combat, and Francoise's enhanced senses didn't translate to preternatural fighting skills.

Albert got back to his feet, disjointed knee clicking back into place, and headed after them. Even while running, however, he kept his right arm level and pointed back toward the field of battle, narrowed liquid blue eyes watching for any sign of enemies breaking away from the main scrimmage to give chase. Unlike the others, having to leave his handheld blaster behind didn't mean he was disarmed.

Britain hesitated only briefly before decisively turning back to face the fight. Tempting as it was to follow the others to relative safety, that would mean leaving Joe and Jet alone to fight off who knew how many opponents. As much faith as he had in the duo's battle skills, the thought of abandoning them to unknown odds was one he simply couldn't abide.

Besides, it appeared his decision was being made for him, judging from the way four of the assault pods had broken away from the main horde and were surging toward him.

Instinctively Britain hit the ground, rolling to one side to avoid the change. Even while dodging, his body began to shift into the first form that occurred to him, something more adept to close combat.

By the time he came to a stop, most traces of his humanity had melted away. In its place were the sleek features of a lean tiger. While his transformation was far from perfect, and any expert on the animal would probably detect several details either missing or amiss, it served his purpose well enough.

The quartet of drones moved forward, their sensors informing them that three priority targets were fleeing. Their basic programming instructed the robots to capture as many of the renegades as possible. This made the cluster of three so close together a more appealing target for those who weren't already directly engaged in combat.

The folly of this sort of stilted reasoning became apparent when the shapechanged 007 slammed into the backside of the trailing pod. He dug his claws in as the force of his tackle drove the drone into the others, then sprang free when sparks began to crackle along the scarred black metal.

Though he landed on all four feet, the unmistakable smirk on the faux feline's face as he glanced back at the smoking ruins of the robots betrayed his very human nature.

Whipping his head about, he judged that the battle was going much easier than he'd dared hoped. He still couldn't see exactly what Joe was doing, but the many, many drones that were bursting into flame and crashing were clearly thanks to the speed demon. Jet had also managed to work up a respectable tally by zipping between the drones and tricking them into shooting each other, bringing a few down here and there with well-timed strikes.

What Britain found immensely more reliving, however, was the fact that there was no sign of more enemies on the way. It appeared the worst was over, and they'd be able to return to the Dolphin and the others in peace.

When Joe 'reappeared' and the last of the pods immediately dropped to the ground or exploded -- or both in a few instances -- Britain took that as his cue to change back to normal. The counterfeit cat rose to both feet, feline features rearranging themselves into a wide grin.

"Well, that was easy," he commented, giving a light little shrug to the younger men as they joined him.

"That's easy for you to say," observed Jet dryly, mimicking his shrug, "considering that we did most of the work."

Britain laughed, folding his arms up behind his head and rubbing the back of his neck. Suddenly the expression on his face changed from one of triumph to one of surprise, twisting sharply as he let out a shocked cry and yanked his hands back down. Joe and Jet started, startled by this outburst, and stared at their comrade, who turned away from them.

"G…G.B.?" Joe ventured after a moment, reaching out for his friend's back.

Britain couldn't find his voice to reply at first. All he could do was stare at his shaking hands, and at the hooked claws still sticking from his fingertips. Slowly, he flexed the trembling digits, gently curling them toward his palms until he felt them pricking his palms. He swallowed hard to relieve the sudden dryness in his throat, the motion sending a small spasm of pain through the back of his neck.

"Hey, man, what the hell's wrong with you?" Jet questioned.

Reopening his hands, Britain studied his now-smooth fingertips for a long moment. He then looked back at the concerned faces of his two companions and, exercising his natural acting skills, offered them a reassuring grin.

"Sorry, didn't mean to give you guys a scare," he said glibly, masking nervousness under sheepishness. "I guess I'm still sore from waking up earlier."

Much as he expected, Jet immediately bristled.

"Will you guys just drop it?! Jeez," and the redhead stomped away, heading in the direction the rest of their friends had headed before, continuing to mutter under his breath.

"Right…" Joe didn't look quite as convinced, but nodded after a bit. "Well, we'd better get back to the others, then. They're probably worried about us."

"Right behind you!" chimed Britain with a smile.

They followed the fuming Jet toward the Dolphin, and Britain found his gaze drifting back down to his hands. He flexed his fingers experimentally a few times, searching in vain for any other abnormalities. Nothing seemed to be wrong, and he didn't feel different. By the time they reached the ship where the rest were waiting, he'd almost convinced himself that it was just a fluke.


	3. Reflection

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The first chapter has all the disclaimers. Not that anybody really ever reads these things.

~ * Reflection * ~

"Blundering fool! What part of 'stealth mission' are you unable to comprehend?!"

Doctor Tenkan kept his head respectfully bowed, ignoring the beads of sweat that dripped from his deeply creased forehead and streaked his glasses. Though his illustrious leader's wrath was thankfully directed to another target at the moment, he hardly found it comforting to hear the commander's ranting.

That didn't mean he didn't share his leader's animosity, however. Were he a bit bolder he would have been glaring daggers at the soldier cowering a few feet away from him. The fool's eagerness to deal with the renegades had nearly jeopardized the original plan.

Ideally, his strategy included not alerting the cyborgs to their presence at all. Subtlety was the key, playing their cards without revealing their hand in it all until just the right moment.

Unfortunately, the grunt in charge of supervising the first stage of the plot found the sight of the nine cyborgs gathered so neatly together, unarmed and off guard, far too tempting.

"You were given specific orders, and yet you chose to defy them -- why? Did you really think the slim prospect of furthering your own petty ambition would justify endangering a plan that has been carefully crafted out for weeks? Did you actually believe you, moronic cretin that you are, had a chance of succeeding where so many others have failed with dumb luck alone?"

The thundering of his master's voice rose into a terrible crescendo, and Doctor Tenkan winced involuntarily as the booming culminated with a flash of violet lightning and the agonized scream of the hapless soldier. The stench of seared flesh washed over the kneeling scientist, and he was immensely thankful that his deferential posture concealed his expression from his superior.

He felt little sympathy for the deceased fool, but a small pang of anguish shot through his heart anyway, for the death of the soldier left him alone in the face of Black Ghost's anger. Bulbous yellow eyes fell upon his prostrate form, and the scientist swallowed hard, struggling against the waves of fear threatening to swallow him whole.

"I sincerely hope that your intricate plans are not derailed by that shortsighted fool's blundering."

There was no empathy in his commander's voice; the only concern he possessed was that the resources his organization had expended on this operation would bring satisfactory results.

Doctor Tenkan nodded mutely, glasses sliding down on his nose. He didn't trust his voice not to crack if he attempted any other form of reply. He was struggling simply to keep the icy shivers running along his spine from becoming more obvious. …Not that he was entirely certain Black Ghost wasn't already aware of his trembling.

The chamber plunged further into shadows as the holographic projection of his commander dissipated, leaving the scientist alone with the smoking corpse. Immediately he let out a shuddering breath, all previous self-restraint vanishing just as the image of Black Ghost had.

He took a small amount of comfort from the knowledge that their primary objective had, in fact, been achieved before the foolish recruit risked it all in that fruitless assault. Hopefully, the renegades wouldn't find any reason to suspect Black Ghost having a hand in anything beyond the attack itself.

It was several minutes before he found enough strength to stand up, and even then his legs trembled. Doctor Tenkan carefully avoided looking over to where the unfortunate soldier's body lay, turning and stiffly walking toward the exit. Cleanup and disposal of such trash was handled by experts, and he needed to continue his work as soon as possible.

The first stage was completed, and the second stage was scheduled to begin shortly. It remained to be seen whether the fool's fatal blunder would be a hindrance or, perhaps, an aid to the plot. He prayed to whatever god might be listening for the latter to be the case; he held no desire to join the soldier in his fate. 

~ * ~

The ride back to the secluded cottage that was their most recent refuge was a mostly quiet one, for all of the Dolphin's passengers were too caught up in their own private thoughts for any real conversation to be sustained. The relative silence was intermittently broken by the dull thud of Jet bouncing the volleyball off the floor, an activity he kept up for only short periods of time before catching it and holding it in his lap again for a while.

Britain spent the majority of the trip gazing out the window, chin resting in one cupped palm, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the control panel before him. He was trying not to think about what had happened after the fight -- which meant, naturally, that his traitorous mind continued to remind him of how the same fingers he was tapping against the metal surface had been tipped with claws.

Having claws had been perfectly fine during the fight itself, when he'd shifted into a tiger to take down a few assault drones. But he certainly hadn't expected to still have them _after_ reassuming his real form. It wasn't supposed to work that way…

(Maybe I'm just tired,) he reasoned with himself. (Jet did interrupt my nap, after all, so maybe I was still a bit sluggish from that.)

He told himself this, and studiously ignored that the rush of shock he'd gotten from the ball slamming into the tree right over his head had snapped him awake instantly. He also tried to dismiss the adrenaline rush he'd gotten during the skirmish.

…Besides, what other possible explanation was there? He'd never really had much of a problem with his power before, let alone made such an oversight. When the situation called for it, it was always 'poof' – turn into whatever it was they needed. Then after the disaster was averted, the villain of the day defeated, the world saved from evil, it was 'poof' again, and he was back to normal.

…It had to be a fluke. He just hadn't been paying attention, that was all. He'd changed back without thinking, and made one minor miscalculation.

(It could have been worse,) he assured himself. (At least I didn't try high-fiving Joe or Jet… though with him, that could have been karmic payback.)

No, the only thing that was hurt was his pride… and the back of his neck. That was to be expected, considering he'd nearly managed to rip it open with his claws when he'd gone to rub that mosquito bite he'd received earlier. Absently, his free hand strayed up and back again, and he hid a wince as he gently brushed the sore area. Though it hurt to touch, at least, now, he _could_ feel the skin underneath his fingers.

All in all, perhaps the incident wasn't as bad as he'd first believed. Maybe the shock of discovering that he hadn't fully changed back was clouding his judgement. It was such a minor slip, corrected easily enough…

"…G.B.? Say, G.B., aren't you coming?"

Britain blinked, then looked over to Chang. The short chef was standing next to his seat, holding one of the baskets of food he'd salvaged, a mildly concerned look on his face. A quick glance around confirmed for Britain what he already expected; most of the others were missing, having already left the deck. The only ones left in the room were Albert, who was standing in the door looking back over at his remaining comrades with an unreadable expression, Chang, and himself.

"…Ah. Yeah," and Britain stood quickly, fighting back the heat of embarrassment he felt rising in his face.

"Are you feeling alright, G.B.?" Chang's pencil-thin eyebrows drew down over squinting eyes, staring up into the taller cyborg's face. "You barely ate anything during lunch, and…"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Britain waved off his friend's concern and grinned. "I just wasn't fast enough to grab much before the attack and all… Trust me, it's not like your cooking was terrible or anything…"

"Oh, that's good to… _What?!_" Chang's relieved smile faded swiftly as he realized the unspoken implication. "What was that about my cooking?"

But Britain was already to the door, slipping past Albert with an ease only one as flexible and used to evaded peeved victims of his slights could attain. Popping his head back into the room, he offering the fuming chef a huge smile and a nervous wave.

"Gotta go, toodles!" and he was out of sight in a second.

"The nerve of some people!" Chang was not a particularly volatile individual, but even the hint of an insult toward his life's work was enough to set him off. "After I was worrying about him too--!"

Albert tuned out his stout companion's continued complaining, his steady steel blue gaze focusing outward into the adjoining hall where Britain had fled. From behind him, occasional mutterings from Chang intruded upon his drifting thoughts -- grumbled snarls of 'stupid', 'thoughtless', among others.

…'Stupid', that he could give him, perhaps. However, Albert wasn't entirely certain that the comment was made completely without thought. After all, Britain was an actor, and had a knack for wordplay. Anyone who groaned at his jokes, so often rife with double-meanings and puns, could attest to that.

There was clearly something bothering the Englishman, much as he tried to conceal it behind forced grins and a glib tongue. Albert had glimpsed the faraway look in the shapeshifter's eyes, the nervous manner in which he waved off Chang's concern. Albert spent a fair amount of time mired in his own depression, now and then, so he recognized the signs in someone else quickly enough.

Britain obviously didn't wish to discuss it, however. And what better way to escape an uncomfortable topic than making such a deliberately inflammatory comment that would deflect the conversation to something else?

…Whatever the problem was, it wasn't in Albert's nature to pry. There were simply some issues that one needed to work through at one's own pace, to deal with -- or not deal with, as it sometimes was -- in their own manner. He certainly could attest to that himself…

Even so, Albert stood gazing off in the direction Britain had headed a bit longer, wondering whatever might have bothered him so about their ruined outing. Somehow he doubted it was merely frustration at having another moment of peace destroyed by Black Ghost's machinations.

~ * ~

(This is ridiculous.)

So Britain told himself as he stood in the small room, staring into the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the locked door, standing just far enough away that he could clearly see his entire body in the reflective glass.

(I'm sure it was just a fluke. I was tired, that's all it was. Having your head nearly get bashed in by a volleyball has its adverse effects, that's all.)

The unspoken words rung somehow hollow in his mind. Though his head wanted so desperately to believe his own rationalizations, there was that tiny, nagging sensation deep inside his heart that continued to cry that it was wrong, something was wrong, everything was going wrong.

It was to shut that little voice up that he changed.

Again, much as he had during the battle, Britain assumed the first form that popped into his mind: in this case, that of a man-sized serpent. He ignored as best he could the pangs of panic that set in as he started to shift: What if there was something wrong with him? What if he couldn't change back? Or worse, what if he only partly changed back, discovering he was unable to regenerate his arms or legs…?

By the time that last detail occurred to him, the transformation was already complete.

Which was definitely a very, "Oh, insert-explicative-you-wouldn't-dare-use-in-front-of-Francoise-or-Ivan" moment.

Still, it was too late for Britain to do anything about it right then. He stared steadfastly at his reflection, newly serpentine eyes sweeping along, taking in every detail, every last fleck of black patterning on his otherwise-mud brown body, coils of slender, sleek muscle concealed beneath shimmering scales.

His mouth cracked open, ready to release the sigh he'd felt building within, when a glint of something caused his breath to freeze in his throat. A shiver started to build at the base of his neck, traveling down his lengthy back as he slowly opened his mouth wider and wider -- not a difficult task, considering his newly unhingable jaw -- to behold the two curved fangs resting on the bridge of his mouth.

Britain didn't recall quite wanting _those _to appear. Usually, when he borrowed the form of some living creature, he kept the structure of his face as close as possible to his true shape without offsetting the balance of the rest of the body. Partly this was so he could still talk to his friends, though there was some comfort in keeping something other than his bellybutton the same about himself each time he changed.

Fangs definitely weren't part of the equation. Yet there they were, glistening from his own salvia, wickedly curved twin spears of white.

(I hope I don't bite my own tongue, I could be poisonous,) Britain thought in a haze. Then, as the tip of said tongue flicked into view, he observed, (Ah, look at that, it's forked, too.)

A weak, half-hysterical chuckle shook his serpentine body as Britain carefully closed his jaw, trying hard not to freak at the sensation of his fangs retracting up to the roof of his mouth so as not to pierce his lower lip. 

Silently, he took a deep breath, counting: (Five… four… three… two… one…)

Then, carefully, he began the transformation back. Not surprisingly, the fangs were the first thing he willed away, focusing all his heart upon the thought of the deadly daggers changing back to normal teeth. Next was the tongue, then regaining his limbs, one by one.

When at last it was completed, Britain stood staring at his reflection, at the tall, bald cyborg standing before him, with no sign of the snake coiled there moments before. Opening his mouth, he leaned forward for a closer look, running an experimental finger over his teeth to ensure there weren't any pointed fangs hiding inside.

Which, considering the fact he still didn't know if his serpentine alter ego was supposed to be poisonous or not, was possibly a really stupid move. Thankfully, however, his probing finger found nothing.

Sighing with relief, Britain let his head fall forward to rest against the cool, smooth surface of the glass, bracing both hands on either side of the mirror.

(See?) he chided himself, allowing a quiet chuckle to escape his parted lips. (I knew it was just a fluke. And I bet the fangs just appeared because I was concentrating so much on my transformation that I just took it a step farther than normal.)

Still chuckling, he shook his head at his own folly. …Or, at least, he began to, turning his head slightly to the right. However, when he caught a glimpse of the patch of dark-brown skin on his wrist, half-hidden underneath the cuff of his sweater, he froze in that position. His already naturally small pupils dilated into pinpricks, and his once-self-amused chuckling tapered off into an anxious little whimper.

Abruptly he pushed back from the mirror and slapped his other hand over his wrist. He didn't immediately realize what he was doing; it wasn't until he first felt moisture forming underneath his fingernails that he realized he was scratching furiously at his skin, attempting to rip the scales off.

A gasp of horror escaped Britain as he yanked his offending hand back, staring at the damage he'd done. The scales had, in fact, vanished, though he figured that was more the result of an unconscious shapechange he'd wrought instead of his hysterical effort to remove them manually.

(Or maybe… I just imagined them…?)

Britain staggered two steps back from the mirror before sinking to the ground, his backside hitting the floor hard unnoticed. His full attention was focused upon the mirror in front of him, at the wide, frightened eyes staring him back in the face.

"What's happening to me…?" he breathed, only barely aware he uttered the thought aloud.


	4. Confrontation

__

The first chapter has all the disclaimers you need. …You know, I could have been evil and ended this part on a real cliffhanger, but decided to tag on that final section anyway. So… eh-he-he… please don't kill me.

~ * Confrontation * ~

The majority of Black Ghost's followers was comprised of shortsighted egomaniacs and fools.

Doctor Tenkan was becoming painfully aware of this at the moment as he attempted to argue with the latest moron put in charge of helping execute his project. The sable-haired general glowered down at him from beneath bushy black brows drawn down over beady brown eyes.

"Please, learn from your predecessor's mistakes!" he pleaded despite knowing his words fell upon deaf ears. "There is no reason to go on the offensive yet, not when we only need to confirm--"

"The longer we allow those cyborgs to run around free, the worse it makes the organization look!" The general's tone was unctuous, a finer match for his sour looks than his silken finery was for his heavyset frame. His hands were steepled together in the fashion that seemed to be so popular for figures of authority in shady organizations, fingers drumming against each other as he queried, "Why should we allow them to remain in their little hideaway and continue to be a thorn in the side of Black Ghost?"

"But the success of direct assaults in the past have been marginal, and always resulted in their escape and elimination of whatever we send against them. For achieve our goals in this operation, we must exercise caution…"

"Bah!" One fat-knuckled fist crashed down upon the desk separating them, nearly spilling the contents of the brimming mug beside it over the polished steel surface. "If anything, we must go further on the offensive now that they have already destroyed several of our remote-control assault pods!"

"B…but the mission calls for subtlety. We must not let them know…"

"They already know that Black Ghost is involved! But they won't be expecting a second attack now, not on their own refuge!"

A dangerous gleam had entered his superior's narrowed eyes, the final sign to the scientist that he had lost this argument. Not that he had harbored much hope of winning: greed and stubbornness were also common traits among members of the shadow association.

So Doctor Tenkan nodded silently. He gave no vocal agreement with the altered plan, allowing control of the second stage to slip out of his hands into those of the obsessed general. Turning on his heel, he shuffled out of the room, leaving the fool to his self-glorifying plans and ultimate fate.

Another instinct that was often found in employees of Black Ghost -- including Doctor Tenkan himself -- was that of self-preservation. This was also commonly referred to as "covering one's own ass". In the eventuality that his superior's modifications for the second stage backfired, there was no doubt that the rash commander would be punished for his transgression, just as his predecessor had.

Doctor Tenkan refused to dwell on this fact. It was far better and safer for him to proceed as normal, preparing for the third major stage while praying that whatever occurred with the impending second phase would not completely wreck the entire project.

If everything was blown… then he would not need to worry about anything else for long.

That was no source of comfort, so he pushed it out of mind. No use thinking about what he couldn't control.

~ * ~

The reflection before him rippled, and Britain blinked once, wondering fuzzily for a second what else was going wrong with him. Then he comprehended the fact that the door was moving slightly as someone on the other side went to open it, causing the mirror mounted upon it to move as well.

Light streamed in from the hallway outside as the portal swung open, and Britain stood quickly before the intruding brightness could illuminate his body. He didn't particularly feel like attempting to explain away to whoever was entering why he had been sitting in nearly complete darkness with his knees pulled up against his chest facing his reflection.

A broad-shouldered figure stood in the open doorway. Britain recognized the other person even before their hand found the light switch and flicked it on, flooding the chamber with halogen-induced brightness. He winced involuntarily and shielded his face with one hand: his eyes did not appreciate the abrupt change after adjusting to the dimness.

"Hey, G-Junior!" he greeted his unexpected guest. "What brings you here?"

The giant cyborg nodded politely in his companion's direction while stepping into the room.

"Chang sent me to tell you that dinner is almost ready," he reported in his deep, even voice.

Britain blinked. _That_ was new. Usually, he'd be hanging around the kitchen or dining area around this time, bugging and laughing with Chang. Strange how he'd lost track of the time like that. He felt a twinge of guilt: the fire-breather was nice enough to send someone looking for him even after he'd used an insult to make his escape…

"Okay, I'm coming," he replied, striding toward the doorway.

"…Where did you get that?"

"Huh?" Britain stopped cold and gave his comrade a blank look.

"Your wrist…" Geronimo intoned simply, dark eyes fixated on the shorter man's arm. "Where did you get those marks?"

Britain felt all the color flood from his face as his own gaze rolled down to rest upon his right hand. The skin was still scraped raw, thanks to his earlier bout with delirium when he'd noticed the mud-brown scales remaining there. Though the snakeskin was gone, there was still visible damage -- not enough to break the surface, but there was a visible patch that had clearly been raked over or scratched.

It took only a moment for him to regain his balance, however. Covering the offending wrist with his other hand, Britain quickly tweaked his sleeve back into place while offering Geronimo an abashed laugh and a lopsided smile.

"Oh, that! I just scraped it during the fight, that's all! Nothing serious…"

He hoped his laughter didn't sound too nervous or hysterical as he squeezed past the looming cyborg and out of the room. He could feel the strongman's steady gaze follow him down the hallway, though Geronimo himself made no move toward him. Britain waved back at him before dodging around the corner, making certain to use his uninjured hand.

Geronimo watched him go in silence. With his strength, it would have been a simple task for him to keep the Englishman from leaving had he seen fit, yet he chose not to, instead mulling over things in the privacy of his thoughts.

Britain was lying to him; of that he was certain.

There was no way he could have sustained those injuries during the fight. Even if it was remotely possible that Britain had been thrown or knocked aside in such a manner that he landed on his wrist, the damage from such an occurrence would surely have been far worse than a small patch of scraped-off skin. Besides, the wound looked far too fresh: as if he had only received it a short while ago.

The most likely explanation, then, was that Britain had either banged it against something and was too embarrassed to admit his blunder… or the wound was self-inflicted.

Neither answer was exactly satisfactory. Geronimo valued honesty most highly, and would prefer an admittance of some simple mistake than some half-hearted cover-up.

However, he knew that Britain was aware of this. Geronimo was fairly certain that if the shapeshifter had indeed hurt himself by mistake, he would have admitted how to him. While Jet or perhaps Chang might have harped about it, the noble Native American would never do such a thing. He wasn't the teasing type.

The alternative possibility, that the scrape on his wrist was self-inflicted…

…It was not a likelihood that Geronimo found at all comforting. What could possibly motivate Britain to hurt himself, even in so minor a manner? He could think of no reason, and found the prospect most troubling.

He would simply have to discuss this with Britain later, the first chance he got. Whatever the problem was, there was no way he was going to stand silent and allow one of his friends to come to harm by any means. 

Even if… no, especially if it turned out that Britain's injury had been dealt by his own hands.

~ * ~

(It can't be just a fluke thing. The claws, the fangs, the scales…)

Unconsciously, Britain covered his scraped wrist with his other hand, tugging his sleeve up higher. He had a sinking feeling that Geronimo hadn't bought his excuse; heck, it had sounded pretty pathetic to him even when he was blurting it out.

(I should talk to Doctor Gilmore about it. After dinner…)

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the blare of an alarm. Britain stopped dead in his tracks at the grating wail, a few very choice words coming to mind. He recognized the most likely cause for the alert, and grimaced when his suspicions were confirmed by Ivan's mental voice ringing loud and clear over the blaring noise.

Hate to be the bearer of bad news, everyone, but it looks like Black Ghost is sending us some company…!

(Perfect. Just… bloody… perfect.)

His hand went from his wrist to his holster, and Britain was glad that, at least, this time around he had his blaster on him. At the moment, he didn't exactly feel like shifting into anything for the sake of yet another skirmish with Black Ghost.

Perhaps, in fact, it would be wiser for him to avoid taking part in the battle altogether. But that was hardly a workable option. This was their home, after all, and there was no way he could simply stand back and allow any minion of Black Ghost to invade this place.

"Where are they, 001?" he shouted aloud.

Following Ivan's telepathic instructions, Britain evacuated the house as quickly as possible and headed off to where the babe claimed their uninvited guests were located. He wasn't entirely surprised to see telltale bursts of light and smoke come into view as he neared the area, or a flash of fiery red, orange and yellow sweeping through the blue expanse overhead.

(There's Jet,) he noted, scanning the field for signs of whomever else had already managed to arrive. (Joe's probably here, even if I can't see him… ah, he must be somewhere over there, thank you, random exploding doom pod. That missile means Albert's somewhere nearby…)

The dark gleam of sable metal glimpsed from the corner of one eye was all the warning Britain needed to turn and shoot down the oncoming enemy drone. A wry smirk twisted his mouth as the smoking husk toppled to the ground, exposed circuitry sending sparks scattering across the ruined steel.

"Excuse me, I'm _trying_ to think here," he deadpanned.

Not that he expected anything from the shadow organization to give him the slightest bit of courtesy, of course. From the looks of things, Black Ghost had deployed considerably more of his little toys this time: he counted at least sixteen more rising into view just now, and that wasn't counting however many were already engaged in combat.

At least this time there were more than just three cyborgs against whatever odds. The sector where he supposed Joe was doing his thing had a good portion of assault pods dropping to the ground, and Jet was zipping around nearby taking out his own fair share. He could finally see Albert now, crouching behind a rock and using his machinegun hand to snipe the opponents closest to him, and the flashes of laserfire coming up just now signaled Pyunma's arrival.

That left Geronimo Junior, Francoise, Ivan and Chang still unaccounted for, though it seemed likely they might be staying close to the house…

Even as he was noting these things, Britain was running to one side, strafing the area with his blaster. Experience on such battlefields taught him how to keep one eye on his nearby teammates and the other on the closest opponents. It wasn't really a talent he enjoyed having, or one he'd ever expected he would need to develop, before…

He wasn't completely focused on the battle, however. A tiny fraction of his mind was devoting itself to keeping up a constant reminder like a small chant in the back of his thoughts: (Don't change into anything. Don't change into anything.)

Which, considering just how much of his actual practicality in a straight fight hinged on his transformation ability, was making things difficult to say the least.

It had become a reflex to some degree, a natural response. Britain didn't really know how much of that was thanks to whatever 'reprogramming' that Black Ghost might have tried administering to him. It wasn't exactly a point he chose to dwell on all that much.

So consciously telling himself _not_ to transform, instead of picking some useful shape and 'popping' into it, was a minor distraction. Britain didn't really realize just how much it was distracting him until the shot from behind connected.

The blast came fast and hard enough that he wasn't immediately aware what happened. There was just an explosion of sharp, stabbing pain on the lower right side of his back, and the sensation of pitching forward. He might have screamed, or maybe shouted from surprise, he wasn't sure -- but his mouth was definitely open when he plowed face-first into the ground. Choking, coughing from a mouthful of dirt and grass, he struggled to push up, hearing through the haze descending over his scenes the rumbling and whirring of the hovering weapon closing in on above.

(Quick, change to a mouse or -- _no!_)

Squashing the impulse to shift to something small and hard to hit, Britain dug his right hand hard into the ground and pushed off, rolling to the other side. The laser bit into the space where his head had been seconds before, so close that he could hear the high-pitched wail of displaced space. The pod, hardly deterred by its miss, turned to face him again, and Britain sensed a few of its friends were likely to come join the party at any moment.

"007! _Move!_"

Was that Jet or Pyunma that screamed at him? It hardly mattered; Britain obeyed his teammate's command as best he could, pushing away and staggering backward as lasers tore funnels before his stumbling feet. Indecision seized his thoughts even as his body reacted by backing away as fast as he could without changing.

(What now, what now _what now_?! Should I shift, is it safe will I--)

His back met cold metal, and Britain freaked, spinning and firing immediately. But it wasn't fast enough to avoid the counter blast coming from another pod, the one that bit deep into his right shoulder. This time he knew for certain he screamed -- his own pained cry ringing in his ears as he stumbled.

Another laser blast seared over his knuckles, forcing the gun to drop from his hand. Britain made a clumsy grab for it, missed, and had to roll desperately in the opposite direction to avoid the shot aimed for his head.

"007!"

"Hang on, we're coming!"

That first cry sounded like Albert, but was it Joe who was telling him to 'hang on', or maybe Pyunma? Britain couldn't tell: the back of his head had struck something much harder than gravel or dirt… had he fallen onto a stone? Or maybe the hull of one of the wrecked pods? Whatever it was, it hurt like hell, and he could hardly focus…

"Shit! Get away from him, you bastards!"

That was definitely Jet; had to be; it sounded like it was shouted from quite a distance away, probably somewhere overhead. Besides, he tended to be the one most inclined to using profanity…

Everything was blurring too much; Britain could hardly get his bearings. He was still flat on his back, he knew that much because he could feel his hands pressed up against the dirt, scrabbling vainly for some purchase. His legs refused to work, and his arms weren't being of much help, either.

The blackness intruding at the edges of his vision would have been welcome, and he would have given into it gladly, except he had a sinking sensation that if he did so it might not be possible to wake up. Especially if the big, fuzzy-edged black thing looming over him was any indication…

"…o-seven! Zero-ze…"

He couldn't think, couldn't focus enough to shift into anything even if he'd been completely confident he could control it. He wanted to move, needed to move, but couldn't will the strength to his stubborn limbs.

There was a point of light forming in the approximate center of the floating-thing taking up most of his vision. Britain knew what it most likely was, and that there was no way that he'd possibly be able to avoid it. Even if he'd had full command of his senses and powers right now, at this close range, how could…

A terrible, wrenching pain shot through his body. It was like every muscle, every cell abruptly burst aflame all at once. If he screamed, Britain himself wasn't aware of it. His entire world was reduced to a moment of twisting, wrenching agony, and then -- sweet, blissful darkness…

~ * ~

"G…G.B.?!"

Francoise stared straight ahead, unable to believe what she'd just witnessed. Her enhanced senses were sharper than anyone else's, so even though she'd been a distance away when it happened, running after Geronimo and Chang as they charged toward the battle…

"003? What happened?"

Both men had stopped running when they heard her horrified gasp and saw her skid to a halt, and both looked back at her now with concern in their eyes. Chang in particular looked stricken, and she felt a flash of guilt.

"What happened? Is 007 hurt?" he asked.

The raw emotion he saw in her pale aquamarine eyes -- the obvious conflict, like she didn't know whether or not to confess whatever it was she'd witnessed -- did little to assuage his rising feelings of unease. He'd been upset by Britain's earlier dig at his cooking, to be certain, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of his friend being injured. And from the expression on Francoise's face, Chang was getting the distinct impression whatever had just happened was more than a case of some minor damage.

"I don't…know," she finally whispered lamely, in a lost, confused tone of voice.

"…We should hurry," Geronimo soon prompted, making good on his words by turning and picking up his sprint where he'd left off.

Francoise and Chang rushed after him, both distracted by their own confused thoughts. Chang desperately wanted more information, but got the impression that he wasn't going to be finding out anything from her just yet. Obviously, he'd have to see what they came across and try and figure things out from there…

By the time they reached the battlefield, however, Chang got the impression that the fighting was more or less finished. The only sign of the invaders Black Ghost had sent were the scattered, split, smoking hulks of broken and battered assault pods.

He'd hung back with Geronimo, Ivan and Francoise to protect Gilmore, but now only the youngest of the cyborgs remained with the scientist. They'd decided to come and try to help when it became clear just how large and close together the intruding forces were. Now, thought, it appeared they were too late to do anything other than help clean up…

Chang's train of thought was completely derailed when he saw the others huddled in a group. He hurried over to join them, breath catching in his throat when Geronimo stood up with a limp, unconscious figure in his arms.

"G.B.?"

All he could see was the top of his friend's head; the rest of his body was obscured by Geronimo Junior's thick forearms. But he could see the solemn expressions on the faces of the rest of the cyborgs, from the worry clear on Joe's face to the pent-up frustration and rage flaring in Jet's narrowed eyes.

Francoise, however, was not looking in the same direction as the rest of the group. Chang was surprised to see her face averted, and followed the path of her gaze to the remains of one of the Black Ghost craft sitting at her feet.

(What in the…?)

The assault pod was completely mangled, easily worse off than the other wreckage within sight. It definitely didn't look like the familiar work of one of their blasters, either. The formerly smooth sable metal was pockmarked with dents and puncture wounds, and seemed to be filled with holes. The strangest part was how small each gap was: too small to possibly be bullet holes, almost more like thousands of needles had been driven into the craft with enough force to pierce all the way through to the other side and continue moving unimpeded.

Staring at the ruined craft, Chang could only wonder what it was he'd missed… and what, exactly, Francoise had witnessed that caused her to look so pale and horrified then, and still vaguely frightened now…


	5. Distortion

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If you want to see the disclaimer, hit the back button until you reach the first chapter: all the information's there.

~ * Distortion * ~

"…I don't know what to make of this, I really don't."

Doctor Gilmore sighed, troubled by his own admission. All eyes were turned to him in hope of a plausible explanation, and yet he had none to offer. …At least, nothing that came anywhere close to satisfactory.

After the battle, he had Geronimo Junior bring the unconscious Britain back to the infirmary. The shapeshifter was currently resting on a cot… sleeping, thankfully. At least he wasn't in a coma.

Since then, the rest of the cyborgs had trickled in by ones and twos until everyone was gathered in the room. Even the aloof Jet made an appearance, though he was the last to arrive and hung out by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and doing his damndest to appear like he wasn't half as affected by this as the rest of the team was.

"…He's going to be okay, right?" Chang asked.

The Chinese firebreather's hopeful whisper did little to lift the awkward silence hanging heavy in the air. Gilmore would have given anything to be able to answer with a smile and a cheerful assertion that yes; everything was going to be just fine.

Instead, all he was able to offer Chang was a sympathetic glance and a slight inclination of his head. Not a straight nod or shake in the affirmative or negative. Just a sign of understanding and mutual concern.

Gilmore rested his chin on the back of his clasped hands, concealing private frustration behind a pensive expression. He hadn't been anywhere near the battle, so naturally he'd been unable to witness the 'incident'. All he had to go on was what the others had reported, piecing together their accounts into what he hoped was an accurate synopsis.

As he sat pondering the issue, Doctor Gilmore's gaze traveled over to where Joe was sitting. His concerned frown deepened at the sight of the young man looking so downtrodden. He wished he could offer some words of comfort, though he knew they would likely only be wasted given the current circumstances.

Joe's head was bowed, hands clenched tightly together in his lap, thick brown bangs nearly covering both his nearly closed eyes. The natural leader of the cyborgs was mired in the pits of self-recrimination and shame.

(Should've been faster… Should've been paying more attention…)

He tried to be cautious when fighting, especially against the forces of Black Ghost. He usually didn't use his acceleration mode unless he deemed it absolutely necessary. After all, he could only use it a limited amount of times before needing rest. Just because time seemed to slow when he was using it didn't mean he couldn't feel the aftereffects of everything he did while traveling at such high speeds.

But this time… Though the assault pods themselves were weak, the sheer amount that had been unleashed this time caught Joe off guard. His instincts told him to even the odds as quickly as possible, before his slower teammates were overwhelmed…

…He hadn't been fast enough.

The bitter irony of it might have given a more cynical man cause to laugh. Joe was not that sort of person, however. Instead he was slowly drowning himself with guilt and personal doubt. He'd push himself harder to try and make up for his perceived failings, perhaps even to the point where he toppled off the edge, so long as nobody realized in time to bring him back from the brink…

A feather-light touch against the back of one of his hands caused Joe to stir, and he looked over to behold Francoise looking back at him. The female cyborg held Ivan's bassinet in her lap, but one of her slender hands was resting against his. A sad little smile was on her face, reflected in her eyes, and Joe hesitantly returned it with a small, half-hearted and all too brief smile of his own.

No hint of comfort touched his garnet eyes, however, and they quickly shifted back to the sleeping form on the cot.

Francoise looked downward, allowing her lashes to veil her aquamarine eyes as sorrow flooded their depths. She remembered all too clearly what she had witnessed -- despite being farther removed from the skirmish than some of her comrades, her talents had 'blessed' her with a clearer view of the action. The scene had seemed to sear itself into her retinas, so that she had no chance of passing off what she had witnessed as a mistake.

Just because the image was sharp in her mind, however, didn't mean she wanted to dwell on it or whatever possible meanings it might hold.

Thankfully, she was spared having to ponder it for the moment when Britain let out a moan and shifted his weight. All eyes turned immediately to him as he groaned, eyes fluttering open slowly as he returned to the waking world.

"Ngh… what hit me…" he muttered, one hand rising to his forehead as he pushed himself upward into a sitting position.

Then he turned his head to see the rest of the group staring at him. This seemed to pretty effectively snap him out of his drowsy state, and he blinked a few times, looking first confused, then surprised, then contrite as some form of comprehension hit. 

"…Er… What'd I miss…?" he asked, lamely, rubbing the back of his head.

Maybe this wasn't the best of actions, as it reminded him just how sore it was after whacking against something hard back on the battlefield. Between that and the prick on his neck it was clear that he was going to be nursing one huge migraine for quite some time.

(Well, add it to the list of 'Things Wrong with Me Lately'. Oww…)

"007. What do you remember from today's battle, exactly?" Doctor Gilmore inquired, studying the shapeshifter cyborg carefully.

('Today's battle', he says. At least I haven't been out for a day or anything. Hey, things are looking up! …Or not…)

"I take it you mean the one after we got home?" he said dryly. When the scientist nodded, Britain cupped one hand over his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully and absently swinging his legs off the side of the cot.

"Well, I remember that I managed to screw up pretty badly," he admitted finally, offering his comrades a weak, apologetic grin. "Sorry guys, I guess the numbers just overwhelmed me or something. But, hey, thanks to whoever pulled me out of there after I blacked out. I take it we won anyway… what?"

He trailed off when he noticed that the others were still staring at him, their faces looking only more concerned and confused. He'd fully expected Jet to spit out some snide comment about having to rescue him, or Pyunma or Albert giving a resigned sigh, or Joe waving it off saying it was no big deal, that's what friends do. Heck, he wouldn't have even been that surprised to hear Ivan pipe up in his head commenting how he'd teleported him the minute he went unconscious, following it up with a telepathic lecture on not letting his guard slip.

But all his apology and thankfulness had garnered was a deeply unsettling silence. 

"Guys, I know you're probably mad at me, but I can explain why…"

"G.B.… Nobody was able to get to you in time to help," Joe interrupted. 

"What?" Britain blinked twice in rapid succession, then smiled shakily at his leader. "Oh, come on, Joe, don't give me that. Obviously one of you guys pulled me out of that mess, because otherwise there's no way I'd be talking to you now. So, really…"

"You don't… remember what happened?"

"What are you talking about, Francoise?" Again Britain blinked rapidly, looking over at the female cyborg.

Francoise looked down at her lap, at her neatly folded hands, watching the delicate muscles tighten as she clenched her intertwined fingers closer together. Her pale eyes took on a faintly distant look even as she raised them to meet Britain's confused gaze.

"I saw what happened after you fell," she explained slowly, voice dropping slightly so that it was even softer and gentler than normal. "The one that knocked you down moved so that it was right above you, and was going to fire at point-blank range…"

She paused, and Britain nodded slightly. It wasn't clear whether he was prompting her to continue or nodding affirmation to himself of something he'd suspected. There was an indistinct memory tickling at the back of his mind, the last image he remembered seeing before blacking out looming large in his thoughts.

"Then… right before it fired, you…" Francoise's expressive eyes squeezed shut, her own horribly vivid memory bringing the image back. "Your body just… contorted, and changed into all these spikes that drilled right through the pod. It was…"

Her voice tapered off; she couldn't think of the proper way to describe it. 'Horrific' rose to mind, but there was no way she'd ever admit to having such a thought. It sounded far too much like an insult. Yet there were no words she believed she could use without conveying some hint of how terrified she'd felt.

How could she tell Britain the sight of him changing into something so starkly different from any living creature she'd ever beheld before had frightened her so badly?

"That's impossible."

Francoise gasped, her eyes refocusing. Britain was staring downward, his shoulders shaking just a little, enough that her sharp senses picked up the faint tremor.

"That's impossible," he repeated in a curiously dead tone of voice. "There's no way that could have happened. I -- I blacked out right before it fired…"

Belatedly he realized that might not have been the best thing to admit right then. Francoise let out a little gasp and looked even more stricken than before, her worried expression mirrored in varying amounts on the faces of the rest of his friends.

"007, is this true?" Gilmore almost winced when he heard his own question; he hadn't meant to sound so doubtful. (It's obvious from the look on his face something is wrong…)

"…Yeah… Actually, doc… there's… a lot I need to tell you," Britain said after a while, locking eyes with the scientist.

(I'm not going to hide any of this from my friends anymore. I'm not that stupid. The only way I can get help is…)

Taking a deep breath, Britain faced his friends and admitted, "I've been having a bit of a problem lately…"

~ * ~

Black Ghost was displeased with the results of the second stage.

Actually, that was a bit of an understatement. 'Completely pissed', that was a more accurate description. But the leader wasn't prone to using such blunt terms to express the extent of his emotions. Violence was more his method.

Doctor Tenkan cowered over his keyboard, furiously typing away, filing what precious data had been recovered before all of the assault squad had been decimated. He would have wished that the now late general had allowed him the far subtler means of gathering information he'd requested, except he knew the uselessness of wishing.

Wishes wouldn't fix all the weapons that had been lost thanks to that foolish choice, nor restore the lives that followed shortly thereafter when Black Ghost learned exactly how many of the assault pods had been destroyed by the cyborgs.

He was focusing instead on the positive. The micro-cameras had relayed some very pleasing images of the battle. Despite all the problems they'd been suffering on their end, at least the core intent of the project seemed to be developing nicely.

Prototype Cyborg 007 was clearly partially aware of the effects. He may not have yet guessed the cause, or the extent to which the damage would be done… but the evidence was there. He knew to some degree something was happening, and was trying to combat it the first way that came to mind.

How else to explain the fact that the cyborg designed to transform was actively avoiding utilizing his capabilities save for one instance during that fierce battle?

Data from past encounters, text, photos and recordings alike, showed him using his powers very frequently. There was practically no sign of the hesitance he'd displayed during this last engagement.

Doctor Tenkan adjusted his glasses, then wiped his sweaty forehead off with the back of the same hand. For all the setbacks, his plan was proceeding quite nicely. For now, however, all he could do on this end was wait, and continue pouring over all the data that came in concerning the project.

If he was fortunate, perhaps he would see his plans through to completion. That, alone, would put him far better off than most of his predecessors on this damned assignment.

~ * ~

Doctor Gilmore shuffled out of the infirmary, shutting the door tightly behind him. Leaning against the sealed portal, the former Black Ghost employee let out the heavy sigh he'd felt building in his chest for some time.

In one hand he gripped a clipboard with several papers attached to it, filled with his scribblings and notes on everything Britain had told him, along with several half-formed theories and ideas based on what he'd heard. So far, nothing he'd come up with satisfied him in any manner.

(At least G.B. was able to tell me all of that,) he mused, closing his eyes. (This would have been much more difficult without his cooperation.)

Indeed, once Britain had started explaining his recent struggle with his transformation ability, starting with his problem with his tiger form after the picnic was ruined, it seemed a weight was being lifted off his shoulders. He'd confessed everything, even showing the scientist where he'd scratched a portion of his skin off after seeing snakeskin remaining there.

It had probably helped that Gilmore had seen fit to usher the rest of the cyborgs out of the room early on. Though he expected to be pounced upon later by some furious demands for explanation, all in all it had gone much smoother with only the good doctor present and no one else.

With Britain's full consent, Gilmore had proceeded to run a few tests on the shapeshifter, hoping to pinpoint whatever was causing his problem. He'd left him behind with the stern instruction to get some rest, an order Britain seemed equally willing to comply with.

(He trusts me to get this sorted out and fixed so things can return to normal.)

Gilmore wasn't certain whether that knowledge brought him more joy or sorrow. To be certain, the fact that he'd earned such trust from someone who might have well developed a lifelong grudge against him considering what he'd done was sobering, a sign that for all the wrong he'd done in his past profession, he must also be doing some things right now…

"Doctor Gilmore, how is he…?"

He was not surprised at all to hear that question, or to see Joe walking hesitantly toward him. The young man's single visible eye held obvious concern, his gaze darting briefly toward the sealed infirmary door before connecting with the scientist's own steady stare.

"I'm afraid I can't really give you a satisfactory answer at this point," replied Gilmore. "I still need to completely analyze the data from the tests I've run. But from what I've been able to compare so far…"

He didn't want to say anything more; already feared he'd said far too much. The look Joe was giving him was slowly tearing him apart inside. The Japanese boy apparently didn't realize just how expressive and open his reddish-brown eyes were. Even with only one visible, Gilmore could read the cyborg's thoughts easily.

There was no way he could take back what he'd already said, or what followed, though he'd later wish he'd chosen to keep quiet.

"To be completely honest with you, Joe," he sighed, "I'm worried for G.B.'s health. I can't pinpoint a cause for this deterioration of control he's been experiencing. I can only hope that whatever the problem is, it turns out to be something I can repair."

"And what if it isn't?" Joe's voice was a hushed whisper.

"I'm afraid this could lead to a complete breakdown. You have to remember G.B.'s system was highly experimental at the time. It could be possible that there are flaws in the genetic makeup. We wouldn't have any way of knowing the long-term effects…"

Gilmore's gaze dropped to the ground, and he finished with the thought he wished most not to dwell upon: "It's possible this may even turn out to be fatal."

He was grateful that Joe's bangs constantly concealed one of his eyes. The shock so evident in the visible one felt as if it was drilling a hole through him. Gilmore wanted to retract his words, to soften their impact with some reassurance, but knew such statements would only sound hollow now.

If he had turned and attempted to reenter the infirmary at that moment, the well-meaning scientist would have seen something that would have made him feel even more horrible than he already did.

However, he made no such move, and so was completely unaware of the fact Britain was slumped on the other side, leaning against the doorframe, trying hard to process what he'd overheard.


	6. Hallucination

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See the first chapter for the disclaimer. Beware, disturbing imagery ahead… Just look at the chapter title, and keep it in mind…

~ * Hallucination * ~

It wasn't as if he'd meant to overhear Doctor Gilmore or anything; it was just a case of bad timing on his part.  


He'd been instructed to get some rest, and, in retrospect, it was clear that Gilmore probably meant to just crash in the infirmary for a while. But Britain hadn't interpreted it that way. He'd taken it as more of a 'go to your room and get some sleep there' than a 'don't leave this room or go anywhere until I get back'. You had to specify these things, or people got confused!

Besides, the cot in there wasn't exactly the most comfortable bunk in the world. Britain felt he had enough of a headache to deal with already without adding the neck crick he was certain he'd develop if he slept there.

But when he'd gone to the door and heard Joe's voice on the other side… he had to admit, he was a bit curious to hear what the scientist replied. Not that he thought Doctor Gilmore would try and hide anything from him… All he wanted was to find out what was happening to him as soon as possible. He assumed Gilmore would be telling him sooner or later, so… why not hear what he was thinking right now?

Now he wished he'd interrupted. Anything was better than trying to cope with what he'd heard the good doctor tell Joe.

(I guess it's true what they say, ignorance really is bliss…)

He stared at the floor for a while, his gaze shakily traveling along the rest of his body. All the feeling had flooded from his legs the moment he'd heard the word 'fatal'. The way things had been going, he half expected to discover that they'd shifted on their own to some other form, throwing him off balance. He was only slightly comforted by the fact that his legs looked perfectly normal, a completely healthy set of appendages. 

(Okay, I'm not that far gone yet. Now then… Up.)

Clumsily he stood, clinging to the doorframe for balance. It was probably best that he was alone right now; Britain had a feeling he looked rather ridiculous at the moment, an overgrown baby struggling to take its first steps. Under any other circumstances, he would have laughed at himself, the same way he tried finding the humorous side in most situations.

Funny how he wasn't feeling quite like himself.

Britain stood braced against the doorway for some time, until he was fully convinced that, yes, his legs could support the rest of his body. Then, carefully, he turned and stumbled back to the cot.

He no longer wanted to bother heading back to his own room. Suddenly, the strain of the afternoon's events caught up to him, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep and bring that horrendous day to an end.

Besides, if he left the infirmary, there was too great a chance of running into one of his friends. At the moment, Britain didn't feel up to facing anyone else. The last thing he needed was getting asked how he was doing, or how he was feeling…

Pulling one of the thin white sheets off the cot, Britain draped the sheer fabric over his shoulders like a cloak. The blanket wouldn't be of much help fending against the dread chill settling over him, but at that point, he could have cared less. He flopped down on the bed and pulled the sheet closer around his body, wrapping himself in a crude cocoon.

"I don't suppose that this all could be a bad dream I can just wake up from now, can it?" he asked aloud, a little too much hope entering his voice as he spoke words he already knew were in vain.

The silence that flooded the darkened chamber as the final word passed his lips seemed harsher than before, somehow. Britain hid the shiver he felt building in his spine with an ill-timed shrug. Pulling the sheets tighter around him, he fell back on the cot and stared at the ceiling, wishing for sleep to come and claim him quickly. Anything to free his mind from mulling over Gilmore's words.

~ * ~

The computer screen was filled with information, too much for his mind to process all at once. Still Doctor Gilmore's dark eyes scanned across the display rapidly, taking all the data in while trying to put things together.

There was little hope of a quick fix or an immediate cure for Britain's condition. Gilmore wasn't even certain yet of what exactly they were dealing with. Before he could work on a remedy, he needed to diagnose the cause of the problem.

(The whole thing reeks of Black Ghost,) he mused, briefly bringing one hand up to massage his deeply creased forehead before returning it to the keyboard to continue his work. (We get into a skirmish with those assault weapons, and suddenly G.B. starts having trouble controlling his shapechanging ability. Hardly a coincidence, I must say…)

But how, precisely, were they conducting their sabotage? Until he could figure that out there was little chance of combating the effects.

(Perhaps it has something to do with those assault pods. Could they be broadcasting some sort of wavelength -- or something that even 003 can't detect… that tampers with 007's system whenever he's exposed to it? No… that wouldn't explain why he had trouble afterwards, when we got back to the house… Unless… it could be some sort of infection, or virus…)

Gilmore sighed, eyes squeezing shut as he bowed his head. So many factors needed to be weighed, so much data to be considered before he could come to a workable hypothesis. Patience was a must if he was to be capable of finding a solution to the puzzle, especially when he only had a few pieces.

Surely, the worst part of this dilemma was all the unknown details. He understood so little about the situation, except that one of the members of their extended family was suffering and he couldn't do anything to alleviate the pain just yet. For all he knew, he was working against an invisible deadline, hoping to find a solution before time ran out and Britain succumbed to his ailment.

(I can't allow myself to think like that!) Gilmore mentally chided himself. (The thing that matters now is figuring out what it is we're up against, not wasting time wondering how much we have left.)

"Can I get you anything, Doctor?"

Gilmore tore his gaze away from the monitor and turned his head, not truly surprised to see Chang peering into the room worriedly. The stout cyborg was holding a tray with a steaming mug of coffee on it. When the scientist smiled slightly at him, Chang looked a bit reassured, and stepped inside, walking over to serve his drink.

"If you need anything else, just tell me," he instructed as Gilmore took the steaming mug from its platter. "Are you hungry? We haven't had much luck sitting down for a meal today, so I don't mind…"

"I'm fine, Chang," Gilmore replied, smiling softly over the rim of his cup. "Why don't you go on to bed? There's no need for you to stay up on my account."

He didn't bother to address the fact that it wasn't simply worry for the scientist's health that was keeping the chef there. Both were aware of it, so to acknowledge that would be pointless, and only lead to more uncomfortable lines of discussion.

Chang sighed, removing the empty tray and holding it cross-armed against his chest. He glanced at the display, taking in the rows and rows of black and white writing. His understanding of the intricacy of robotics was rudimentary at best; his specialty was cooking, creating cuisine rather than circuitry.

"Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me," he finally said, slowly leaving the room.

Sipping his coffee, Gilmore let a sigh slip out. It would be surprising if either one of them managed to get any rest that night. Too many questions remained, and as he returned to studying the readout before him, he got a sinking feeling that only more would be unearthed before he came anywhere close to a solution.

~ * ~

The nightmares themselves were formless things, flashes of disorganized terror with horrifyingly vivid images burning through the rest of the jumble in places. Nothing was clear, yet mere fleeting impressions were more than enough to set Britain tossing and turning in a futile attempt to shake off the phantasms.

An active imagination. Usually having one was a blessing, a more than perfect match for his gift. But now that his transformation ability was spiraling out of control, so, too, was the same thing that so often had proved helpful in the past.

The worst possibilities that manifested themselves in the dreamscape weren't of being trapped permanently in some alternate form like a mouse or chair. Or of only transforming halfway and being stuck with claws or fangs or scales. Or losing limbs, or watching his body shift of its own accord, or even dying because of an ill-timed change or simple cellular breakdown.

The worst were the ones where someone else paid the price for his loss of control. 

With a terrible sense of detachment from his own body, Britain was forced to watch as his right arm shifted into a crude mockery of an axe and buried its rough, serrated edge deep into Joe's back. He knew it must be a dream -- surely, surely the fleet-footed cyborg would be able to dodge such an attack in real life, right?

…Maybe not… not if he wasn't expected it from his own teammate.

The nightmare took on more form, a vividness he didn't desire, as twisted parodies of his friends' voices rose into shrill screams. It almost seemed sentient, like his growing terror was lending strength to the phantasm.

(So why aren't I waking up?!)

Francoise's skull was caving underneath the force of his fingers -- not his fingers, more a mutation of a vice and countless knives. Her screams had faded, replaced by a sickening rending sound and the rising shrieks of Jet and Pyunma as both lunged at him.

His body didn't even turn to face them, the only response to their team assault the thick, gleaming spikes tearing from his turned back. Britain heard more than felt their impact, and wished the nightmare would end soon. He couldn't even close his eyes, and had to behold the handiwork wrought by the creature he had once been.

A shriek was stuck in his throat, building and bulging against its constrictions as he watched more of his teammates fall to his own hands. Geronimo toppled backward, the giant's clutching hands motioning feebly at what remained of his face. A brief blast of intense heat from somewhere behind him was cut off when one arm twisted into something sharp and lanced unerringly backward. Even Ivan could only hold his barrier up for so long before the constant assault on the glowing shield pierced through.

Abruptly whatever force was driving his body fled, leaving a gasping, panting Britain staring wide-eyed at the remains of the rest of the rebellion. Finally able to move of his own accord, he was unable to do little more than squeeze his eyes tightly shut, drop to his knees, and scream.

Then his eyes snapped open to behold formless darkness. In a blind panic, Britain thrashed violently to one side, and with a crash found himself sprawled on the infirmary floor. The sheets were tangled round his body in a misshapen cocoon, and he quickly realized that one had shifted to cover the top half of his face, rendering him temporarily blind.

(It was a dream! Hah… I knew it was… of course…)

Hollow self-reassurances piping weakly in the privacy of his own mind, Britain forced a chuckle from his dry throat as he twisted, trying to untangle his sprawled limbs from the confining bedsheets. Freeing his right arm at length, he grasped the flimsy fabric and yanked it off.

When he beheld the sight of his other arm twisted at an unnatural angle and his legs half-fused together from the knee -- knee? -- down, it was enough to cause another frightened shriek.

Britain sustained his scream even while hastily kicking away from the cot and backpedaling over the floor, even after his limbs reformed into their normal shapes. His panic only sharpened as his howling continued, long after he probably should have run out of breath.

007! Calm down! _G.B.!_

Gradually he became aware of the fact that Ivan's telepathic voice was ringing through his thoughts; the trapped echo of his own shriek was burning at his ears. Britain fell silent, his terror losing its edge at the familiar presence.

In the following stillness, he heard the pounding of footsteps barreling down the hall. The door slid open, and Britain looked up to see Joe, Albert and Francoise standing there, the female cyborg holding Ivan's bassinet tightly in her arms.

"What happened?" demanded Albert, liquid silver eyes a fraction wider and wilder than normal as he cased the room.

It was a nightmare, wasn't it? Ivan added.

The babe's mental comment was not a private one, for the others reacted to it as well. Albert let his gunhand drop to his side, his expression unreadable. Francoise took in the disheveled state of both the room and the shapeshifter, her pale eyes filling with sympathy. Joe stepped forward and offered a hand up to Britain, but was ignored, as the Englishman righted himself. Britain gazed steadily down at the floor, finding it easier to look at than the faces of his friends.

"I… lost control again…" he offered meekly in explanation.

He didn't want to go into any more detail. The nightmare was still too fresh and vivid. He didn't dare make eye contact with any of the others, certain that their concerned expressions might be swiftly overlaid by the grisly images burned into his mind's eye.

Ivan's eyes weren't visible beneath his tousled mop of periwinkle hair, but he didn't need to see them to know both were fixed upon him. If anyone was able to detect the lies behind his statement, it would be the youngest cyborg.

…We all need to try and get some sleep while we can. Doctor Gilmore's still up working on a solution. Are you going to be alright?

"Oh, sure, I'll be fine," Britain lied with a smile.

"You sure?" Joe's single visible eye shone with anxiety. "I can stay in here or…"

"That's okay, it's okay!" Waving off his concerns, Britain motioned the others toward the door. "I'm fine now, really."

Lying through your teeth, maybe. Fine, maybe not.

Britain hid a flinch. From the lack of reaction from the others, it appeared that, at least, Ivan had kept that mental reprimand private. Maybe the kid really was tired; after all, he normally rested for fifteen days straight at a time. Whatever this problem was, it was likely going to wreak havoc on Ivan's sleeping habits.

"I'm okay now," he repeated, putting a confidence into the statement he wished he could feel. "You guys go back to sleep, now."

(Since I'm probably not going to be getting any now.)

"All…all right," Francoise finally acquiesced, though her sad tone made it clear she wasn't pleased about it.

See you tomorrow. And try not to worry too much about it, okay?

"…Get some sleep," instructed Albert, turning on his heel and following Francoise and Ivan out of the room.

"Yeah," Britain said. (Yeah, right.)

Joe didn't move to follow the others, just continued to stare at Britain with that single clear ruby eye, obviously worried. Britain still couldn't bring himself to look his comrade in the face, and kept his gaze averted to one side even while offering him weak platitudes.

"Go on, I'll be fine. I'm sure it's passed by now. I'll be okay, promise!" He smiled, trying to regain some shadow of his normal attitude. "I'm sure Doctor Gilmore will have something in the morning, so don't worry about it!"

Finally, Joe turned and walked out, the door sliding quietly shut behind him. Once he was gone, Britain sighed and slumped down on the edge of the cot, burying his face in his hands.

On the other side of the closed door, Joe sat down as well, leaning back against the sealed portal and staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. No matter what Britain told him, he couldn't find it in himself to return to his room. Instead, he chose to stay there for the remainder of the night, waiting for morning and whatever answers Gilmore might be able to offer.


	7. Progression

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The basic disclaimers can all be found in the first chapter. Look, a chapter title that ends with '-sion' instead of '-tion'! …What?

~ * Progression * ~

"Hey, wake up, already."

Joe flinched at the feel of something pressing into his shoulder joint with a bit more force than he was comfortable with. Opening his eyes, he looked up to see Jet bending over him, repeatedly jabbing his arm with one finger. Seeing that he was awake, the redhead straightened and turned to face the doorway, repeatedly rapping his knuckles against the smooth surface.

"Come on, G.B., get a move on! Doctor Gilmore asked me to come get you."

Joe rose unsteadily to his feet, staring at the floor. How long had he been asleep? Or, never mind that, how _could_ he have fallen asleep under such circumstances? He'd been planning to stay awake all night, waiting in front of the infirmary for…

(…For what? If G.B.'s powers went out of control again, how was I… how am I supposed to help him? We still don't know what's causing it, or anything…)

The shriek from last night rang through his thoughts, and Joe shuddered. He'd heard Britain shout in fear previously, during some of their more dangerous missions, but… he'd never sounded quite like that before. There had been a completely different quality to it. And the look he'd glimpsed on Britain's face when they'd first barged in…

Of course, they hadn't exactly needed to deal with a problem like this one in the past, either. Just the thought that any one of them was losing control of his powers…

"Hey." Jet had turned his attention back to him, sharp bronze eyes snapping Joe out of his reverie. "You going to change before joining us, or what?"

"Um…" Joe nodded absently. "Sure, I guess…"

Casting one last glance at the closed infirmary door, Joe then sighed and started back to his room, brushing shoulders with Jet as he passed.

"…Why did you bother hanging out here? Just what were you planning to do if he had another attack?"

Joe froze in mid-step, garnet eyes dilating just a fraction as Jet's brusque question reached his ears. The pair stood back to back, unmoving, a tense silence bridging the gap between them.

"…I… wanted to be there for him if…"

"What for? You don't even know what's causing it. Just how were you planning on helping him, anyway?"

"……" Joe's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he closed it, shutting his eyes as well.

"Like it or not, we can't do anything until we know what we're up against. And even if Doctor Gilmore's found out what's going on, there's still no guarantee we can fix it." The copper-haired cyborg's words bore a bitter edge, each sharply spoken sentence cutting a bit deeper into his companion's heart. "So why'd you bother?"

"…Because…" Joe reopened his eyes slightly. "…I didn't want him to feel like he was facing this alone."

It was Jet's turn to stand in silence then, his only visible reaction the slight tightening of his jaw. After a moment more, Joe started forward again, heading back toward his room to change. Jet resumed walking at the same time, heading in the opposite direction.

After the two cleared the corridor, the infirmary door slid open, and Britain popped his head outside, glancing both ways to ensure that nobody else was present.

"…I have got to stop listening in on others," he sighed, bowing his head. "I don't think it's good for my health…"

~ * ~

He had spent the entire night mulling over data, poring over test results and experiments, analyzing every piece of information he'd gathered in hopes of forming the most accurate explanation possible given the circumstances. It wasn't the first time he had forgone sleep in the pursuit of knowledge, nor would it likely be the last.

Yet Doctor Gilmore felt far more exhausted this morning than he usually did after working under such conditions. The scientist slumped in his chair, wearily gazing into the mug cradled in both hands, idly tipping the cup back and forth to stir the cold dregs of coffee still remaining in the bottom.

It was more an emotional drain than a physical one that he felt. Though it was likely that a few aches and pains would linger in his bones for a while, he'd born such discomforts before and would again without complaint. If only he had to show for his overnight work was more…

"Here, let me take that," Chang coaxed, gently removing the empty mug from the scientist's grasp and replacing it with a fresh, full cup.

Gilmore smiled thankfully at the stout cyborg, though the brief grateful expression did little to lighten the grim mood hanging over him. Taking a sip of the warm liquid, his gaze swept over the room, regarding the others gathered there.

At the moment, only Joe, Jet and Britain were absent; the rest of the cyborgs had already gathered. Francoise was balancing Ivan's bassinet on her lap, the blonde's blue-green eyes downcast. Albert sat to her immediate right, Geronimo Junior directly beside him; the latter appeared to be in silent meditation while the former's steel blue eyes scanned over the pages of some tome. There were a couple of empty chairs to Francoise's left, but nobody moved to fill them.

Pyunma had pulled a high stool off to one corner and was sitting on that, arms crossed over his chest and staring down at the floor. Chang bustled around, meanwhile, busying himself by offering to retrieve anything the others wished, and looking rather saddened when his suggestions were repeatedly turned down.

All of them were clad in the familiar red and gold uniforms that served as the classic cyborg costume. The casual attire and attitude of the previous morning had been abandoned. In its place reigned an uneasy inactivity, like the calm before some unpredictable storm.

Jet was the next to arrive. The spiky-haired cyborg failed to acknowledge anyone else when he entered, stepping silently into the room and moving to lean against the wall not far from where Pyunma was sitting. He crossed his arms and stared off to one side, thick red bangs effectively concealing his eyes and thus masking most of his expression from the others.

A few minutes later, both Joe and Britain showed up. Both took their seats without a word to anyone else, Joe taking the chair to the immediate left of Francoise. The female glanced up as they sat down, a variety of emotions flickering rapidly over her fair features.

"So, Doctor Gilmore…" Britain spoke into the silence, "Anything…?"

He let his voice trail off, for once at a loss on how to phrase his thoughts properly. There were too many questions he needed to ask, and no idea just which ones, if any, the scientist might be able to answer. Not to mention the fear that the response his queries might garner would be the same thing he had overheard him mention to Joe…

The former Black Ghost employee sighed, the heavy sound causing Britain's heart to sink significantly. He squared his shoulders, determined to pay close attention to what the scientist said regardless of anything else.

"There's still quite a few things I have yet to figure out about the situation," Gilmore admitted slowly, turning to face the computer as his fingers sought out the keys he needed. "However, considering the circumstances, I think it's best I tell you what I have managed to work out for the time being."

Britain nodded mute agreement, steadily staring at the screen as data appeared and scrolled across the monitor. The rest of the cyborgs looked on as well, some doing a much finer job of masking their emotions than others.

"007, I have a question for you," stated the scientist, glancing over his shoulder at the shapeshifter. "During the first confrontation with those assault pods, do you remember being hit by any sort of needle or laser?"

"…No, I don't remember anything like that."

"Hmm. Well, from what I've been able to gather, it appears that sometime during that first attack, you were… infected with some new form of virus."

"What kind of virus, doctor?" Joe spoke up, ruby eyes intense behind his thick bangs.

"To put it simply, it appears to be a program designed to… override the function of 007's transformation ability." Gilmore paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, heartily wishing that he possessed some small gift with words that could help him soften the impact. For now, the best thing he could think of was to maintain eye contact with Britain as he continued, "After you were infected, the virus began rapidly multiplying and attaching itself to individual molecules of the cytopathic plastic silicon polymers that make up your system."

"…Ah." Britain swallowed the hard lump he felt forming in his throat. "Say, doctor… This virus… there's no way it could affect the others, could it?"

"No, that isn't possible." Gilmore shook his head in the negative. "The virus was clearly specially made for the sole purpose of… targeting you."

'Targeting' wasn't the first term that came to mind, but Doctor Gilmore figured it was the least damaging one he could use. There were much more accurate phrases running through his thoughts, but he refused to use such blunt terminology in front of Britain. This was his body they were discussing, after all!

"Well, that's good, at least." A weak laugh came from Britain at his own comment; clearly he was grasping onto any straws he could at this point. Forcing a crooked grin, he looked plainly at the scientist and prompted, "Now, isn't this the part where you tell me the good news to help cancel all this out?"

Gilmore would have answered immediately had he anything concrete to offer. As it was, the elderly man merely gazed sadly at the shapeshifter. After several minutes, Britain was the one to break eye contact, lowering his gaze to the ground.

"…Oh." Suddenly standing, Britain kept staring down at his feet, finding the floor much easier to study than the rest of the readout or the faces of any of his friends. "Could you excuse me for a second, doctor?"

He didn't even look up to see the scientist's hesitant nod before turning and trudging from the room. He didn't see Chang start to get to his feet and follow, only to be restrained by Geronimo Junior placing one massive hand over the chef's. Everyone's eyes tracked his movements, until the door slid shut behind him.

"Well, that went well," commented Jet acidly. His golden brown eyes glittered in the shadows cast by his wild red spikes, his glare burning holes through the doctor as he demanded, "Why didn't you say anything to him that was a little… oh, I don't know, more encouraging?!"

I could say the same to you, really. Don't go pointing fingers when you don't know the whole story, chided Ivan.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Chang questioned, looking around at the others pleadingly. "I mean, if it's a virus, can't we get a vaccine or something?"

"I have been working on a program that hopefully will be able to neutralize the infection," replied Gilmore, sinking in his seat and rubbing the deep creases of worry left in his forehead. "However, I still don't know the full extent of its effects. Until I can figure out exactly what the virus does, any patches I can create could be buggy, imperfect."

"You could have at least told him you could try making a temporary fix or something!" Jet wasn't about to be denied the right to vent his frustration.

"I don't want to risk possibly doing more damage with a temporary fix!" shot back Gilmore with a surprising amount of venom in his tone. The flash of anger swiftly faded, however, leaving the doctor looking more drained and exhausted than before.

"…I will find a way to repair this as soon as possible. But we have to proceed carefully. We can't afford making any mistakes."

"…Damn!" Jet turned and slammed a fist into the wall before him. Pivoting on his heel again and stalking to the door, he announced bluntly, "I'm going out!" and then stormed from the room.

"…Doctor Gilmore, is there anything we can do?" Albert inquired at length, liquid steel gaze sliding smoothly from the doorway to where the scientist sat.

Gilmore shook his head slowly before stating, "There's little we can do at this point, other than help G.B. deal with this until we can find a permanent solution. I'll continue to work on researching this virus; hopefully I can find a way to isolate a strain and go from there."

"I can assist you with that, Doctor," Francoise offered, handing Ivan's bassinet over to Geronimo Junior's waiting arms and standing.

"…I'm going to go find G.B.," Joe said, standing as well and turning to leave. "It's probably better if we don't leave him alone."

"Alright then," Gilmore nodded agreement. The elderly scientist's gaze followed the young cyborg out of the room, then swiveled back to the computer before him. There was much work to be done, and little time to waste.

~ * ~

(A virus… overriding my body…)

Britain stood hunched over a sink in the bathroom, bracing himself by clinging to the stainless countertop with both hands, staring at his reflection in the mirror mounted on the front of the hanging medicine cabinet.

The very thought should have sent shivers racing up and down his spine, set his stomach to churning, driven him to his knees. In some odd way, he actually wanted to feel ill at the mere concept. Yet there was nothing… just a strange sense of detachment from everything, including his own body.

The only thing signifying any sort of reaction to the professor's words was his endlessly racing mind. His thoughts drove down a dozen different paths and possibilities at once, dizzying amounts of worst-case scenarios and terrors rising in a whirling nightmarish maelstrom.

The mere existence of that sense of detachment wasn't helping matters any. Britain felt no relief at the notion that his body wasn't echoing his mental suffering. Rather, it only helped amplify his fears, giving them more root and substance.

(If I can't control my own body… oh, God, if this is Black Ghost's doing, then…)

His fingers drove deeper into the counter, unconsciously tightening as images rose unbidden of his nightmare. His eyes squeezed shut, treacherous mind playing out the vivid memory of seeing mockeries of his own hands seizing hold of Francoise by the hair, twisting and tightening until her shrieks were cut off…

Britain jolted back to reality, realizing with an icy flash of terror that he could feel something actually giving way in his grasp. Pushing away from the sink, he stared at the fresh gouges in the once-pristine countertop. It would have been difficult enough if the indentations had resembled his fingers, but, in truth, there was nothing of the sort. He couldn't even judge what could have done such damage despite the fact that he must have dealt it himself.

Some sensation flooded back into his body, causing his hands to shake slightly as he stared down at his upturned palms. They appeared perfectly normal, now, but who could say what they had resembled moments ago?

Britain couldn't, and the realization absolutely terrified him.

There was a rap on the door, only a single knock to give warning before the portal cracked open. Britain didn't even need to raise his head; the mirror reflected the image of the slightly ajar doorway and allowed him to glimpse the single garnet eye peering through.

"Are you alright?" Joe left the door open behind him while stepping into the bathroom. "I thought I heard you…"

"I'm fine."

Joe started at the dead tone of voice, scarcely recognizing it as Britain's own. "G.B.…?"

"Go away." Britain didn't turn to face the younger man, instead staring stonily at the mirror, holding his body as stiff and rigid as possible.

"G.B.," Joe started, stepping forward, reaching out with one hand toward his friend's averted back, "I only want to…"

"I said _get the hell away from me!_"

Joe froze, cinnamon pupils dilating a fraction at the alien sound of the Englishman's voice rising into a vicious snarl. It wasn't merely the fact that Britain had spat out a curse in such a vile tone that caused him to freeze in place. There was also a definite pulse, a current that seemed to _ripple_ through the shapeshifter's entire figure.

In the space between heartbeats, Britain's right arm twisted backward, defying any sort of natural hinges or constraints. His fist slammed into the side of Joe's face, knuckles driving into his exposed cheek with a force that shouldn't have been possible. Never mind that the swing itself should not have been possible within the limits of any sort of human contortion.

Britain's gaze was locked on the mirror, allowing him to bear witness in a manner that only heightened his shock.

In the instant that he swung, he had felt absolutely nothing. The right side of his body had gone completely numb. The first sensation that flooded back to him was the moment his fist connected with Joe's face.

The younger cyborg fell backward, his head snapping back when he struck the wall behind him. Britain regained control of his body just in time to turn around and watch the boy slump to the tiled floor, out cold.

(_Joe?!_)

He would have screamed out his leader's name, but his mouth refused to form the syllables. Staring at the unconscious body before him, his mind played hideous tricks, overlaying the slumped form with an image straight from his nightmare.

G.B., what happened?! Ivan's telepathy pierced the veil falling over his senses. The child's mental voice carried a distinct tinge of shock, an utter confusion that hardly suited the babe. G.B.? _G.B.?!_

But Britain failed to answer, for at that moment his thoughts were all consumed by one single action: run. All he did was bolt from the room, mind goading him on, urging him to put as much distance between himself and those he cared for as soon as possible.

He had regained control, but for how long would it last? If he remained here, what was to say the next lapse wouldn't be even worse? He'd seen Joe's chest keep rising and falling slightly, so he took slight comfort in the knowledge that his strike couldn't have possibly killed the lad, but what about the next time?

(I can't stay here now, or I might…)

Flashes of his nightmare rising to the forefront of his thoughts drove him on, remembered screams drowning out Ivan's continued protests. All he could do… all that mattered… was ensuring the only way he knew how that those horrific dreams wouldn't become his reality…


	8. Agitation

__

First chapter has all the disclaimers and such; this chapter has more angst and action. And for those of you wondering what I considered to be more of a cliffhanger in comparison to chapter four… Just read on.

~ * Agitation * ~

"Damnit!"

His fist slammed into the tree trunk before him with enough force to shake several leaves free from their branches. Jet followed up his first strike by pounding the back of his other hand into the bark directly above the crest of his wild red spikes, his forehead falling forward to rest against the rough surface.

The high collar of the black jacket he'd worn to help conceal his uniform hid a good portion of the lower half of his face in much the same manner that his bangs covered the upper half. So even if anyone else had happened to pass by and notice him, there was no way they could see how he gritted his teeth in frustration.

"Nothing…" he snarled under his breath.

He'd returned to the place where they'd held their picnic with one goal in mind: finding out where Black Ghost had sent their damned assault pods from in the first place. If he could figure that out, then it'd be easy to storm their base and find some decent answers about what exactly the hell was happening here!

Unfortunately, his search had turned up nothing. No clues, no hints, not even any wreckage to work from! Apparently Black Ghost had thought to send out one of their cleanup crews or something after the fight; he'd combed over the spot where they'd fought just yesterday and found nothing more than some fuel stains and patches of bent and broken grass where shattered hulks had rested.

(I think Doc Gilmore did collect a few of the busted-up things after we fought back home, though…)

Jet pounded his balled-up fist against the trunk again, though with less force than before. He wasn't too eager to return empty-handed. Since he'd run off without giving the others any indication of where he was headed or what he was up to, he'd be certain to get a lecture from Albert or someone else for the stunt.

(…Feh. Let them think what they want; I don't care.)

Pushing away from the tree, Jet thrust both hands into the pockets of his jacket and stormed off, glaring at the ground. He wasn't about to rush home: no sense hurrying back when all that awaited him for his efforts was a scolding. Besides, if he wanted to fly there, he'd first have to locate some out of the way place where he could take off without being noticed. Best to take his time, then; take advantage of the walk to think things through without any pesky distractions.

He definitely wasn't eager to return and discover how little things had changed in his absence. From what he figured, Doctor Gilmore was still plugging away at his research on that damnable virus, while the others either helped him work or hung around G.B. in an awkward attempt to make him feel better. Neither activity was really his style, so what was the point of going where he wasn't needed?

No, there was no reason Jet could think of to hurry. Better to try and enjoy the time alone while he could before returning to the mess he'd left behind…

~ * ~

He couldn't go back there, not now. Not in his condition. Maybe not ever…

Britain stumbled along through the dense foliage, pushing low-hanging branches out of his way and trying not to trip on exposed roots or the odd rock. At times it seemed his body was resisting his command to flee, his feet landing more surely on unseen obstacles than clear ground. More than once he slipped, sometimes failing to break his fall with a hand and landing face first in the dirt.

But each time he fell, he forced himself to push back up and keep forging on. There was no telling when he'd no longer be able to do so, and he was determined to make every minute count for as long as he could.

His imagination was only too eager to add fuel to his flight by constantly replaying the same scenes time and again. The memory of seeing Joe collapsed on the bathroom floor, knowing he had been the one to strike him down -- witnessing his arm curve back to deliver the blow and feeling nothing save the moment of impact… Recalling how, in his nightmare, Joe had been the first to fall to a literal backstab…

Britain's breath hitched as he choked back a sob. There had to be some way of preventing that from happening in real life, but the only solution he could think of was staying far away from his friends.

(And then what? Either they'll come looking for me, or Black Ghost will… But… what else can I do?)

Again he stumbled, his foot finding a nice thick tree root to smash his toes against and drive him to his knees. Britain managed to catch himself this time, however, both hands hitting the dirt palms first. He hesitated only a few moments before pushing back up and continuing his run.

He just needed to put all the distance he could between those he cared about and himself. Thinking about what to do next could come later, if he had any capacity for thought after losing the ability to run any further…

~ * ~

"The subject is in motion."

Doctor Tenkan nodded slightly; this was the only indication he gave that the drone's monotone report was received and duly noted. His gaze remained locked on the monitor before him, scanning over the displayed information even as his stubby fingers clacked out an addition to the gathered data.

There was a faint whirring somewhere off to his left as the robotic messenger departed his darkened chambers, off to perform some other task to better serve their master. The scientist scarcely noticed its departure, absorbed as he was in his research.

He did take note, however, when a much softer, more muted whoosh came from just behind him. Doctor Tenkan hesitated, gray eyes widening a fraction behind his glasses, fingers pausing in mid-stroke for just an instant before continuing their steady rhythm.

"It appears that the cyborgs have gained some awareness of your plan."

"It was expected, sir." Tenkan fought to keep the fear he felt in the presence of his commander under control and managed to answer in a steady, if hushed and reverent voice. "Doctor Gilmore is far from a fool. I imagine he began to run his own experiments soon after the virus began manifesting."

"This will not be a problem, I assume?"

"Of course not. His involvement was predetermined and planned for well in advance."

The screen before him briefly caught the reflection of two rotund yellow eyes, the same eyes he felt burning into the back of his neck. Swallowing the lump rising in his throat, Doctor Tenkan took a moment to compose himself before continuing on.

"The infection has spread at the rate projected in our estimations. Once it has established itself in every molecule of the body, all that will remain is dealing with the mind." The information displayed before him shifted at the press of a key. "As you know, it was difficult to attempt and simulate the effect of a human psyche in conjunction with the virus."

"Yes… an unfortunate flaw."

"A flaw, naturally, but one that should be of little real concern in the long run. The infection was deliberately designed to override control of the transformation ability. This included a gradual disconnection of the capacity of the mind to direct such maneuvers. In the final stages, to put it quite simply, prototype 007 will be completely unable to control his own shapeshifting. That will be completely conducted by the virus, which will proceed to carry out its other primary objective."

"The destruction of the 00-number cyborgs…"

There was a clear note of undisguised rapture in his master's sibilant hiss. The faintest shudder crept down the scientist's spine. Quickly regaining control of his body, however, Doctor Tenkan concentrated on keeping his fingers moving over the keyboard, sustaining the rhythmic typing.

"Naturally, the situation will be continuously monitored. If it appears for any reason that things are not going precisely as planned, there are secondary measures in place to ensure the retrieval of the infected cyborg and extermination of the weakened rebels."

"Good. I await further reports of your success."

A ripple in the shadows behind him and the disappearance of the ghastly visage reflected in the computer screen informed Doctor Tenkan that he was once again alone in the room. The breath he had been subconsciously holding since his commander's final statement came out in a rush, and he slumped forward in his seat, glasses sliding briefly from their perch high up on his nose. His brief respite, however, lasted merely a moment, and the scientist quickly righted himself and continued his work.

He couldn't rest, not while the 00-number cyborgs still functioned. Rest could come later, provided all went according to plan.

~ * ~

The length of the bright yellow scarf he wore billowed freely behind him as Jet swept through the clear sky, a streak of flame against the swirls of white and blue.

He still felt no joy at the prospect of returning home with nothing to show for his earlier departure. But, hey, there wasn't much else he could do, right? Let them wonder where he'd been; he didn't even have to try and explain himself if he didn't feel like it. And right then, he didn't feel too much like letting them know of his failure.

He was so consumed with viciously arguing this point with himself, that he almost missed the flash of movement down below.

Blinking twice, Jet stopped short, pulling his legs up beneath him so that he was hovering more or less in place. With bronze eyes narrowed into sharp slits he stared downward, scanning the dense wilderness below for any sign of -- There! This time he was certain he'd spotted something moving over there!

(What, don't tell me Black Ghost is up to something else…!)

Despite the incredulous, enraged tone of his thoughts, Jet allowed a slight smirk to twist one edge of his mouth upward. Maybe he wouldn't have to report back empty-handed. It looked like his luck was changing -- though whether it was a stroke of good luck or bad to run into a possible enemy ambush while alone was up to debate.

(…Heh. Bad luck for them.)

With the swiftness of a hawk diving for its prey, Jet swooped downward, his right hand disappearing underneath the folds of his jacket to retrieve his blaster from its hidden sheath. His body was already reacting to the impending conflict, adrenaline surging in its familiar rush.

Then his target emerged from the brush, and surprise washed over Jet's face as he drew up short, though his expression swiftly shifted from one of confusion to exasperation.

"What the… What are you doing out here?" he demanded, coming to a perfect landing on both feet and turning to glare at the unexpectedly familiar face.

Britain would have blurted out the same thing, had he been able to do anything more at the moment than gape bug-eyed at the aerodynamic cyborg. The last thing he'd been expecting was to run across one of his friends during his escape, let alone nearly get dive-bombed by one.

"J…J…J…J-Je-Jet?!" he finally managed after finding his voice.

"What is with you?! What do you think you're doing, leaving the house in your condition?!" Fuming, Jet shoved his gun into the pocket of his jacket and stepped toward his comrade. "C'mon, let's get back to the…"

"_NO!_ I can't go back!"

Panic overriding him, Britain turned and bolted, the object of his desperate flight shifting from getting away from the others to simply leaving Jet behind. Which, truth be told, he was painfully aware likely wasn't too bright a prospect, but thoughts of what the alternative might mean successfully pierced though all other considerations.

"He…_HEY!_" Needless to say, Jet was more than a little startled and peeved by this decision. "Where do you think you're…"

He charged after him, batted a few branches clear of his face as he ran, then suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

"Wait… What am I _doing?_"

Activating his boosters, Jet took off again, swiftly closing the distance between him and the other cyborg. He located Britain just clear of the woods; the shapeshifter had paused at the edge of a bluff and was looking down the rocky cliffside.

"What the hell is wrong with you, G.B.?" demanded Jet, once again touching his feet to the ground and folding his arms, looking even more pissed over the fact that he'd actually had to _chase_ after him. "Just 'cause the doc hasn't got anything yet to help you doesn't mean he won't…"

"Stay away from me!" Britain's voice held a definite tinge of hysteria as he backed away from the redhead. "I don't want to risk hurting you!"

"What?" The Englishman's cry was rewarded with a brief look of utter astonishment and confusion on the younger man's face. Quickly realizing what he had to mean, however, Jet grimaced, replying, "You think you're actually a danger to us now, just 'cause Black Ghost had you hit with some virus?! Look, you don't have to worry about it. We'll protect you until this is all worked out, alright?"

"No!" Britain shook his head furiously, taking another step backward to counter the step Jet took toward him. "Just go away!"

"I'm not leaving you here!"

(Damnit! If Black Ghost finds him like this, they'll only screw him up even worse!)

"I'm taking you back," he declared, bringing his hands up in a ready fashion. "Trust me, G.B., this is for your own good. The doc'll fix you up, I'm sure of it."

His hands balled into fists; though he wasn't too thrilled at the idea of actually fighting the shapeshifter, it was clear from his erratic behavior that getting him back home wasn't going to be easy. Hopefully he wouldn't have to rough him up too badly before dragging him back.

"Jet!" Britain cried desperately, seeing his friend advance.

Of all the rotten luck he could have; out of all of his friends that he could have stumbled across, it was the one with the most stubborn streak imaginable. As the redhead advanced, he moved to take another step backward, only to find his legs no longer responded. It wasn't merely the knowledge that there was a cliff somewhere behind him that arrested his movement, and Britain's pupils dilated as a wave of icy coldness overrided his senses.

"_STOP!_"

He glimpsed Jet's eyes going wide underneath his fiery wild bangs as his body contorted, no longer acting under his command but under that of some other force. Both of Britain's arms shot forward, palms pointed toward the hawkish lad, the fingers stretching out into long, serrated blades lancing at their prey.

"What the hell--?!"

Jet sprang into midair in a burst of dust and flame, the ten blades converging on the spot where he'd been standing. At the moment of impact they bent and surged upward, yet he dodged the continued impaling attempts and flew around behind the other cyborg.

"G.B.," he sputtered, "What the _h--_AHH!"

Britain felt the tiny spark of hope that'd leapt in his heart the moment Jet evaded the first assault sputter and die. He'd felt the moment of impact, much as he had with Joe, only this time the sensation had been accompanied by the screech of torn metal.

His body pivoted, though not of his own volition, in time for Britain to behold the nasty gash that now graced the outside of Jet's left leg. The jagged laceration stretched from at least the knee down to the bottom of his foot; that was all he was able to see before the sputtering flame from his other boot died completely and he dropped out of sight, disappearing over the side of the cliff.

"Jet!" he screamed, feeling some semblance of control return to him, though too late -- much too late. "JET--!!"

No reply came to his straining ears other than the faint crash of the waves below. Britain stared straight ahead, desperately willing Jet to rise back into view using just the booster in his other leg, to at least scream again, anything…

Nothing came. There was only the dreading numbness creeping back over him, slowly reasserting its icy control. His chest should have been aching, his heart should have been pounding, he should have been diving over the side to look for his fallen comrade, not gazing blankly at the place he'd last seen him. Britain couldn't even feel the tears he was at least fairly certain had to be seeping out of his widely staring eyes.

An utter exhaustion washed over him, and Britain felt his eyes drift closed. The darkness was almost sweet, somehow, in how it promised a release from the pain…

Silence reigned, consuming all.

Then, gradually, the corners of Britain's mouth twitched upward into the vaguest hint of a smile.


	9. Separation

__

As always, all the disclaimers are located in the first chapter if you need to refer to them for any reason.

~ * Separation * ~

"We have to find him, doctor!"

Joe moved to stand, but the feel of Francoise's slender fingers tightening over his shoulders and gently holding him back forced him to remain seated. The female cyborg stood immediately beside his chair, and he looked between her and the scientist seated nearby as he continued to plead his case.

"There's no way he should be out there alone in his condition!" he argued, crimson eyes alight with worry. "If Black Ghost is behind all this, then…"

"Please, try to remain calm, Joe," Gilmore's tone was firm, but not unkind, and there was a deep sympathy in his tired old eyes as he returned Joe's anxious gaze with a steady one. "I've already sent Albert, G-Junior, Chang and Pyunma out to look for him. I'm sure they'll be back shortly."

Joe looked far from convinced, but after a while lowered his gaze to the floor, shoulders sagging slightly when he sighed. Sitting down across from him, Francoise squeezed her blue-green eyes closed and let out a quiet sigh of her own.

Everything had happened so quickly, she scarcely knew what to do -- or even, really, if she could do anything more than her current activity of simply being there in the room with the only three that remained in the house.

She recalled overhearing Britain's warning scream to Joe just before chaos broke loose. It wasn't like she'd been spying on them or anything; instead, her enhanced hearing picked up the shriek as clearly as if she'd been standing in the bathroom with them. The shock of hearing him swear so viciously was mild compared with what followed.

Francoise had been through enough battles to recognize the sound of a body being knocked backward into a solid wall.

Unconsciously, her fingers tightened their grip on the armrests of her chair as she remembered the swish of displaced air so immediately followed by the crash of Joe's back meeting the wall, the snap of his head jerking backward.

In that instant she had gone rigid, frozen out of pure shock, breath catching in a gasp that arrested the attention of most of the other cyborgs.

The burst of mental bewilderment from Ivan that followed effectively alerted everyone to the fact that something had just gone incredibly awry.

In his surprise, Ivan broadcast his telepathic exclamations not merely at Britain, but to the rest of the household as well. The inadvertent blast of psychic incredulity was strong enough to nearly paralyze everyone who was in the same room as him for a brief moment. Though they recovered quickly, and ran to investigate, by the time anyone'd been able to work out exactly what was happening Britain was already gone.

Gone… undoubtedly frightened of what else he might end up inadvertently doing to his comrades as the virus inside him continued to manifest itself.

Francoise was absolutely certain that whatever was causing his transformation ability to malfunction was also to blame for the incident. Joe had awakened soon enough, and quickly filled the rest in on what had occurred. Based on his behavior, it seemed the most likely and sensible explanation… though certainly not a very comforting one.

"I'm sure everyone will be back soon," she stated, forcing a sad little smile for Joe's sake.

You know, you're not a very good liar, Francoise.

Francoise somehow managed to mask her flinch. She was quite grateful that Ivan had kept that little comment private, since Joe showed no reaction of his own to the telepathic observation. Hopefully the child understood the reason why she tried to speak with such surety while nursing her own secret doubts and worries.

Leaning back in her chair, she absently raised one hand to gently stroke her forehead. If her head hadn't still been throbbing a bit from before, she would have attempted expanding her senses to their limit to aid the search. For the moment, however, she could only rest and wait… hoping the others would give truth to her reassurances by arriving shortly.

~ * ~

It had been a simple matter to decide: if they wanted to locate their wayward teammate quickly, it was far more efficient to split into two groups. There had been no debate or argument about who would go with whom: Pyunma had simply pointed and proclaimed where he was headed, and Albert followed. Geronimo Junior and Chang took another path, planning to scout off around the perimeter of the property.

(It would be much easier,) Albert thought with the faintest trace of bitterness, (if Jet could help scout from above.)

But the temperamental kid hadn't given any hint as to where he was headed or how he could be contacted. Typical thoughtless behavior, the type he'd been scolded for before and yet kept repeating over and over again.

(Well, there's no helping it now. He'll be sorry enough when he gets back and learns how he missed all the action.)

"Seen anything yet?" Pyunma called over his shoulder.

When the German shook his head, so did the aquatic expert, his heavy gaze returning to scan the forest before him. This didn't promise to be an easy task: Britain's talents were specially engineered toward keeping him hidden in plain sight in such situations. If the shapeshifter didn't want to be found, then he probably wasn't going to be found.

Although one would think that, given his current crisis concerning controlling his ability, it would be considerably simpler to locate him. However, Pyunma wasn't about to underestimate his comrade. That would be a stupid mistake, and possibly a costly one, if Black Ghost happened to know of their friend's flight.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, and started forward deeper into the woods with Albert close behind him.

~ * ~

"…Damn…it…"

Curled fingers clawed at the unyielding stone beneath him as the fallen eagle struggled back to consciousness. Hissing through gritted teeth, Jet managed after a few minutes of intense effort to raise his head off the granite. Bronze eyes opening into narrow slits, he craned his neck just enough to get a good look at his legs.

His eyes only confirmed what the feedback from both his cybernetic and nervous systems were already screaming at him. A gash stretched down the outside of his left leg, originated just underneath the joint of his knee and extending to just above his ankle. Beneath the layers of torn fabric and peach skin lay exposed circuitry, frayed wires and damaged equipment sparkling and crackling in the open air.

"…Shit."

Another snarl of exertion accompanied the jerky movements as Jet pushed himself upward, eventually managing to elevate his torso enough that gravity took over and he bent forward, now sitting where he'd fallen and panting heavily. Tentatively he attempted to flex his leg. His test was rewarded with a hastily gulped back screech that turned into a low, grating hiss.

He remained motionless for some time, hunched over and rasping for air, right hand resting on the joint of his uninjured leg while the other arm lay limp beside its corresponding limb. When he began moving again, it was to reach up and undo the knot resting at the base of his neck. Once it was loosened he yanked the scarf from his neck, the long, golden yellow fabric fluttering with the activity.

(Can't stay here forever… Got to get back to the others…)

Once, twice, thrice and more the saffron length wound over, covering and concealing the ruined boot and pants leg and the mess underneath. Several times, in several places down the length, Jet ensured the firmness of the binding with a tug here, a yank there, gritting his teeth whenever the action sent pain rippling up the rest of his body.

Finally, his work was finished, and he sat studying the results. It was crude, to be certain, and hardly a subtle cast. The bright yellow hue of the fabric would only draw attention to the injured appendage. It practically screamed "Look here! A weak point!"

Still, given the circumstances, there was not much else he could do. At the very least, it would serve as a passable method of covering his wound until he could get back to the house and get it treated properly.

Leaning forward so that his palms rested against the ground, Jet inhaled sharply before pushing up. His injured leg shrieked protests as he lurched to his feet, displeased with having to support any weight despite his attempt to favor the other as much as was possible.

But Jet refused to acknowledge the pain, grinding his teeth together tightly while edging one half-step forward. He had much greater concerns right now; like a little pain was about to stop him…!

~ * ~

"G.B.! Where are you? Come out, come out, wherever you are…!"

Chang's call echoed loud and clear through the forest, yet yielded no response in any form that the stout fire-breather could detect.

"You do realize that G.B. does not wish to be found, so it is far from likely that, even if he were to hear you, that he would answer."

There was no sarcasm or malevolence in Geronimo Junior's tone, merely a stoic observation. Chang's shoulders sagged briefly despite his understanding of this, and he turned a distinctly wounded expression on his towering companion.

"I know, but… still… It never hurts to try, right?"

There was the fact that, with his well-intentioned cries, Chang was essentially broadcasting their whereabouts to anyone and anything within hearing range. There was the chance that, even if Britain was nearby, that he was so intent on fleeing his friends that all the shout would motivate him to do is head in the opposite direction. There was the tiny detail that it might fall upon unfriendly ears as well, alerting their enemies to their predicament.

Geronimo Junior was aware of all this, and yet said nothing to dissuade his comrade from his activity. For all the risks, it was more important to keep the fledgling hope in the other's eyes alive and well. Should that fade, their situation would only become more problematic.

So he remained silent, his steady gaze traveling slowly along the trees and bushes even as Chang cupped his hands back around his mouth and resumed his litany. Let him conduct the search his own way; Geronimo would use his own methods. All approaches possible needed to be utilized so long as one ended with the results they prayed for.

"Where are you, G.B.? Please, answer us…!"

~ * ~

Silence and shadows were his tools, his friends, and he embraced both with equal adoration as he made his way carefully toward his destination.

The most minute, the most precise shifts lent his footsteps a finely attuned agility. Like a panther sneaking toward its intended prey, he moved without making a sound, picking his way along. Careful calculations and specific adjustments accompanied each step forward, carrying him a bit closer to his goal.

For all the alterations his body was undergoing to ensure his safe passage, however, his face remained utterly devoid of any sort of response. His mouth was a neutral line, lacking even a firm set. There was no fear reflected on his face, no sorrow, no malice, no anger, absolutely nothing.

The tears that had briefly escaped at the sight of Jet plummeting out of view had long dried. There were no streaks to mark their presence.

There was no light reflected in his eyes; in their place were two panes of glass, twin glossy black marbles that remained fixated straight ahead, relaying all information on what lay ahead to the rest of the body, which shifted correspondingly.

His steady pace did not falter until the sound of footsteps gave him reason to pause. The momentary hesitation was not born out of emotion, but simply a moment of recalculation. Without a sound, the shapeshifter stepped behind the nearest tree and pressed against it, body transforming to appear as a perfectly natural extension of the plant.

At first glance, all one would observe was that the tree got a bit thicker near the base of its trunk. It would take some time watching carefully before one might spot the pair of eyes peering outward from beneath the bark.

When Pyunma and Albert crossed into view, the transmuted cyborg failed to so much as blink. Instead, the cold eyes continued to observe the pair, taking this new development into account.

"We'd better find G.B. soon," Pyunma was commenting to his companion. "The way Joe was acting when he came to, I wouldn't be surprised if he tried accelerating out here to help look if we take too long."

"I'm more concerned about someone else finding him first," responded Albert, right hand flexing unconsciously as his steely gaze swept over the nearby trees.

As they passed the tree the shapeshifter was hiding behind, the staring eyes masked within the false bark blinked. For a moment a touch of softness, of sorrow, glistened in their depths, and a mournful whimper came from the mass.

Albert stopped short and turned around, pivoting the upper half of his body so that he faced the direction the sound had come from. He hesitated, the fingers of his right hand briefly flexing, before turning and following after Pyunma once more, only half-convinced he had heard something.

When they were almost out of visual range, the shape-changed cyborg stirred slightly. His body began to reform, though his camouflage remained even as his head, torso and upper arms emerged from the trunk.

Somewhere within the confines of his body, a flicker of recognition gave birth to a spark of abject horror. But the figure showed no outward reaction and the flash of rebellion was silently extinguished. Soon the weak flash of resistance subsided, lacking any real strength to support the rebellion.

Detaching completely from the tree trunk, 007 resumed his silent stalking, moving inexorably toward his ultimate goal.


	10. Aggression

__

The first chapter has the disclaimers. Ten chapters down…

~ * Aggression * ~

A companionable silence lay between Pyunma and Albert as they searched through the forest. Neither man saw any reason to speak, for what, really, needed to be said? Both preferred saving their words for when they needed them; there would be plenty of time for discussion after they located their absent member.

In that silence, the crack of a twig was akin to a small explosion in how it arrested their attention.

Albert heard the brittle snap behind him, and instinctively snapped his right hand up before him and pivoted to face its source. The thin shafts of sunlight penetrating the canopy above reflected off his steel blue eyes and metal hand. Pyunma spun about as well and dropped into a crouch, the barrel of his pistol glittering as he brought it level.

Britain stood there, mostly hidden by the trunk of a tree. One hand rested against the rough bark, and it was clear from his posture that he had been intending to hide behind it. They had turned too swiftly, however, and he was exposed.

The scene remained suspended for several seconds as the three cyborgs stood staring at each other. Finally, Albert lowered his arm, and Pyunma his gun. The latter holstered his blaster with a half-hearted movement, then stepped forward, his expression somewhere between relief and annoyance.

"So here's where you've been hiding. You've got everyone worked up, you know that? What were you thinking, running off like that?"

Britain did not answer. He didn't even move from where he stood, still half-hidden behind the tree. From where he stood, Pyunma couldn't get a good look at the shapeshifter's face, yet he saw enough to recognize that he bore an oddly neutral expression.

A mild uneasiness festered in the back of the young warrior's mind. The Englishman wasn't acting the way he would think someone in his position would. There was no sign of contriteness or apology. Why wasn't Britain stammering some excuse for his actions, or trying to lighten the mood with some weak joke? At the very least, he should probably be asking after Joe...

A terrible suspicion crossed his mind, and Pyunma took an abrupt step backwards.

He could tell from what he saw of Albert's face that he was following the same line of thinking. Mouth set in a firm line, Albert reached out toward Britain with his left hand, its metallic mate surreptitiously shifting so that it was level at his side.

"Come on, G.B.," he prompted gently. "We'd better hurry back to the house. Doctor Gilmore and the others are all waiting…"

Being closer to the shapeshifter than Pyunma, Albert had a clearer view of his face… or what little of it was not obscured by the tree trunk. Only one of Britain's eyes was visible, but the utter lack of emotion it held as his partial gaze connected with the German's was enough to make him stop cold in his tracks, liquid blue eyes widening a fraction.

In the next instant, everything changed.

The bark of the tree facing him exploded outward, peppering the startled Albert with wooden shrapnel. Instinctively he raised his left arm over his face, jumping backwards to avoid the spray, and his right arm snapped up with the fingers locked together.

He heard Pyunma cry out behind him, but wasn't concerned for the aquatic expert's safety. He knew the Kenyan was standing far enough back that there wasn't any way he could be caught by the tree's explosion.

As the scene came into clearer focus, Albert realized that the side of the trunk facing them was covered with thick gouges. The tree hadn't exploded; something had burrowed just underneath the bark and _lashed out_ at him, and that something was currently swinging back in front of Britain as he stepped out from behind his cover.

(His arm,) Albert comprehended -- or, at least, some melding of blades and edges that jutted from where the appendage was supposed to be.

Even as he watched, transfixed, the limb reshaped, though not into the natural form of his right arm. Instead, it twisted and lengthened, tapering off into a whip with a wickedly barbed tip that lanced unerringly forward to tear a furrow into the ground before him.

Jumping back again, Albert landed alongside Pyunma and fell into a crouch. His knee started to unhinge, but with a sudden twitch he forced it shut again. This wasn't lost on his partner, and Pyunma shot him a sideways glance, arching an eyebrow.

"Not a good idea, right?" he hissed under his breath, low enough that only his partner would overhear him.

Albert inclined his head forward slightly in a clandestine nod. The darker-skinned cyborg clenched his teeth together, keeping a close eye on his shapechanging comrade while his thoughts raced furiously in search of some solution. His hand hovered uselessly over his sheathed pistol; he might as well have left it behind for all the good it was going to do against this opponent.

Britain's face remained blank, his arm reforming once more as he brought the twisting limb back to his side. He began to slowly advance on the pair with steady, measured steps, gaze locked upon his targets. They stared back, scarcely able to believe what was happening.

004, 008!

"001!" Pyunma answered the mental hailing with a fierce whisper. "Now what…?"

…I don't know.

Albert felt Pyunma stiffen beside him. He couldn't blame his partner for letting his shock show, for he felt it as well. Such an admission was rare from the tiny telepath. He could feel the youngest cyborg's frustration broadcast into his mind as clearly as his own.

I'm trying to contact 007, except… I know he's there with you, but he's not.

"What?" Eyeing the approaching figure, Pyunma snarled under his breath, "What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

It means… Ivan's mental voice faltered again; it sounded as if the infant himself wasn't entirely certain how to communicate whatever the problem was. There's something keeping me from talking to him. Some sort of barrier…

"Well, that isn't good," noted Albert.

It wasn't clear to Pyunma whether the German was referring to Ivan's news or the fact that Britain's body was transmuting again. This time the change originated in his fingers, which were lengthening and hardening into what appeared to be bony black claws.

"001…" he murmured, knowing the child could at least pick up images of what was happening from them if not the shapeshifter.

I know, I know! Look, just try to keep him busy; I'll see what I can do!

The barest of flickers inside his mind informed Pyunma that Ivan was shifting his concentration to other tasks. He and Albert were left facing their infected, insane comrade alone… for the time being, at least.

"Keep him busy… right…"

The change was complete, Britain's hands now sporting five hooked ebon claws. With a sudden fluidity he lunged forward, forcing Pyunma and Albert to spring in different directions to avoid being shredded where they stood. Landing arms first, Britain pushed upright, claws digging furrows in the dirt as he pivoted to look directly at the aquatic expert. Pyunma felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face as he found himself staring into the other's impassive face.

"Ivan, whatever you're planning, make it quick…"

~ * ~

"He's really… attacking them…"

Francoise's quiet declaration perfectly matched the bleak disbelief covering her pale features. The female cyborg stood poised, one hand raised to press against the lobe of her ear, the other folded against her lightly trembling chest. Her aquamarine eyes were haunted by ghostly impressions of the battle raging between three of her dear friends.

"I'm going," Joe declared, rising to his feet.

"No, you're not," Gilmore maintained, hands on the lad's shoulders and pushing him back down to sit.

"But, Doctor…!"

"Running into this blindly isn't going to solve anything," argued the scientist, avoiding eye contact with his patient. He couldn't let his judgement be clouded by the urgency he knew was flashing in the boy's terribly expressive garnet irises. Looking instead over to where Ivan's bassinet was sitting on a chair, he added, "We have to figure out some sort of plan first…"

Ivan heard the conversation dimly, the voices of the good doctor and the other two cyborgs muted like they were talking from a distance instead of residing in the same room. His concentration was focused on two tasks; keeping an eye on how Pyunma and Albert were faring against Britain, and pinpointing the rest of the team.

005, 006, he sent once he detected the pair. 004 and 008 found 007.

["Oh, wonderful!"] Chang's gleeful voice rang out in the babe's head, as miles away the firebreather declared the same thing aloud. ["So that means he…"]

He's not all right. At the stab of confusion from Chang's mind, Ivan felt his facial features tighten as he grimly reported, That virus he's infected with, it's apparently taken over. He's attacking 004 and 008.

["…_WHAT?!_"]

I need you and 005 to head over and assist them immediately. I'll send you the location. Hurry.

The bursts of unfiltered dismay coming from Chang's mind were painful to the youngest cyborg, and he did his best to tune them out. Geronimo Junior's thoughts radiated a similar sense of disbelief, but the giant was doing a much better job of keeping his emotions under control. Without speaking aloud he asked for the location, and Ivan relayed it to him, then stretched his thoughts further, seeking out the last of their number.

002. …002!

Contrary to what the others sometimes suspected, Ivan did not keep tabs on exactly where the other cyborgs were and what they were doing at all times. It was simply too much of a strain to sustain links with all those minds at once. Besides, he respected their right to privacy, and only pried into their thoughts when he felt the situation called for it.

…And occasionally when he was extremely bored, but that was neither here or there.

It was an annoyance now, though, to seek out the aerial combat specialist without having some clearer concept of his location. Between 'watching' the skirmish between Britain, Albert and Pyunma and guiding Geronimo and Chang there, splitting his attention to a third task seemed almost a waste of time.

But Jet deserved to know what was going on, and if he was close enough to lend a hand…

Then he found him, closer than he'd expected -- though that wasn't the only surprise. Underneath his mop of periwinkle hair, Ivan's glowing eyes widened at the feedback he was receiving from the hawkish lad's body.

Suddenly he saw Jet as he was at the moment; leaning against a tree for support while rasping for breath, fingers digging into the bark. He could see how his scarf had been converted into a makeshift cast for his left leg, and how the redhead avoided putting weight on it by latching onto different trees, slowly and steadily making his way back in the general direction of the house.

(Oh, just faint already!) Ivan thought privately with a rare flash of anger.

There was no way the proud cyborg would succumb willingly to his injuries in that manner, however. Ivan was certain Jet would keep dragging himself along for as long as he could, refusing to let common sense dictate his actions.

Without him going unconscious, however, Ivan couldn't simply teleport him straight home. He couldn't in good conscience leave Jet out there, of course; in his condition he'd be easy pickings for any Black Ghost flunkies that might get involved.

005, 006? Ivan reestablished contact with both men, making his decision quickly. I need you guys to do something else first. 002's been injured, and you guys are closest to where he is. Go intercept him, and then…

A blast of pain from another cut Ivan short, coinciding with a sharp gasp from Francoise. Her aquamarine eyes shrank slightly from fear, bearing witness to something only Ivan was able to glean flashes of as well.

"Albert…" she breathed.

Joe jerked violently and all but exploded to his feet, but Doctor Gilmore's hands remained tightly clamped over the cyborg's shoulders.

"Don't be a fool!" he hissed urgently in the boy's ear. "Even if you used your acceleration mode until you exhausted it, you still couldn't get close enough to the battle to still be of any use once you arrived! Save your strength!"

He felt Joe stiffen, then his shoulders slumped, and the leader of the cyborgs sank back down into his seat disconsolately. Francoise spared him a sympathetic glance, then her attention was arrested once more by the ongoing conflict.

Ivan refused to feel helpless. Just because the others in the room could be of little assistance didn't mean he had no other means of offering aid! Hidden eyes glowing a brilliant shade of blue beneath his bangs, the youngest cyborg concentrated on piercing the veil that kept him from reaching another of his friends:

007! Can you hear me? 007! G.B.!

~ * ~

There was a faint buzzing at the back of his mind, a tickling sensation that he brushed off as nothing of concern. There were far more important matters at hand, such as finishing off the two traitors in front of him before moving on to greater targets.

Behind the temporary shelter of a tree trunk, Albert hunched over with his right hand pressed against his chest, holding shut the fresh tears in his uniform. It had been a simple mistake; dodging left when he should have gone right. Thankfully, the attack had not cut deep: only the three longest claws had left their mark, three narrow furrows scraped over the melding of flesh and bare metal.

Just because it wasn't a terribly serious wound, all things considered, didn't mean it didn't sting.

The trunk quivered, the only warning he got before bark exploded outward with the force of the barbed spear being thrust through the other side. Albert sprang backwards, tuck and rolled to the right, ending on his hands and knees and glaring at the shattered remains of the tree.

Britain wrenched his arm free with a disturbingly fluid movement, the spear-limb regaining its previous clawed form. There was still no sign of emotion on the actor's face as he pivoted to face the kneeling Albert. Raising his arm overhead, he brought it down swiftly, ready to rend the German to shreds.

Before it completed its course, Pyunma sprang from behind, reaching out to restrain him.

Without turning to face his other opponent, the shapeshifter's body mutated again, his other arm swinging back around to intercept his attacker. His fingers closed like a vice around the combat expert's neck, then slid down smoothly to his waist and spread out until the extensions met at his back. Turning Pyunma's momentum against him, Britain turned smoothly about and drove his victim into the nearest tree. The bark splintered under the impact, and Pyunma's head fell back, then drooped forward as he passed out.

"Ze…008!" Albert cried out.

His shout fell upon unhearing ears, for Pyunma was out cold and Britain was preoccupied. The Englishman's body twisted so that he was facing the pinned cyborg completely. His left arm rippled, still keeping Pyunma lashed against the tree, while his right raised and moved backward in preparation to strike, barbed claws lengthening a fraction more.

Shakily Albert lurched to his feet. For a few precious seconds he could only stare, racked by indecision. They'd been trying not to hurt Britain, but the former actor afforded them no such courtesy. If he didn't do _something_…

There wasn't any time to agonize over it.

Britain's right hand shot forward, sable claws aimed for Pyunma's throat. In the same instant Albert lunged, the edge of his left hand shining as he brought it down in a vicious arc that intercepted the other's strike.

There was no scream, but the way the shapeshifter convulsed and released his pinned victim told Albert his aim had been true. Pyunma slumped to the ground, and the German would have run to his side had Britain not suddenly turned his face in his direction.

The emotion that had been absent for the entire encounter was suddenly evident in the wide-eyed look on Britain's face. Sudden tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Albert could only stare at his friend's anguished face, unable to break the connection.

"A…Alber…" Britain half-sobbed.

The name hung unfinished, for abruptly his face twisted again, the fear replaced by a dark fury. It was the last vision Albert beheld before his body was pitched upward by the fierce blow to his stomach, before he was slammed down next to Pyunma hard enough that his impact left an impression upon the earth.

Britain's chest heaved furiously for several seconds, his breath rasping before the icy detachment returned in full. Regarding the fallen bodies with cold indifference, he brought his right arm up, transforming it into a mass of edges and spikes before bringing it crashing back down in a vicious arc.

The transfigured limb met only churned dirt and shattered bark. The bodies of his victims had abruptly vanished.

Britain's face remained neutral as his arms retracted and resumed their usual, natural shape. It was obvious where his prey had vanished to. Turning on his heel, he set off for his next destination.

~ * ~

"Albert! Pyunma!" cried Francoise.

Neither overheard her frantic cries, but lay unmoving where they had materialized in the room. Ivan slumped forward in his bassinet, not bothering to raise his head enough to watch Gilmore and Joe rush to assist their injured comrades.

It was fortunate, he thought, though he didn't broadcast it to the others, that 007's brutality had knocked the two out. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to do anything other than watch as he… No, it didn't bear thinking about. It hadn't happened, so it was pointless to consider it.

He listened to the way the others hurried to lay the duo out and check their wounds. From what he could still sense, neither was in serious danger from their injuries; the most immediate threat to their health was back in the woods somewhere…

"Joe, where do you think you're going?" demanded Gilmore.

"I'm going after him!" the leader declared; Ivan didn't need to look at him to picture the solemn determination filling his face, or the way he strode toward the door.

Don't bother…

Joe stopped in his tracks and looked over to the bassinet, worried. Ivan's mental voice sounded exhausted, and he wondered just how much energy the Russian cyborg had expended in getting Albert and Pyunma safely back to the house.

"Why not?" he asked.

Because, Ivan announced grimly, he's coming here.


	11. Congregation

__

The disclaimers are in the first chapter, in case you somehow managed to miss them. Another 'calm before the storm'-type installment here; sorry about that. Just preparing for what happens in the next part…

~ * Congregation * ~

A steady stream of muttered obscenities issued from the swaying, staggering figure as once again he was forced to stop and lean against the side of a tree for support. His grasping fingers first sought out, then dug into the gnarled bark of his latest temporary crutch.

His leg was acting up again. All the makeshift cast he'd fashioned was good for was keeping the gouge covered. Didn't prevent the nasty feedback that shot up his side each time he accidentally put any weight it. From his left knee down it felt like his leg was afire, and each misstep on his part stoked the blaze.

Jet cursed; why had he thought binding the leg would work? He hadn't expected it to be a magical cure-all, but he'd been hoping it would make the going a little easier. Easier than this slow process of lurching along through the woods praying he didn't collapse before he reached the next tree!

He already knew the answer, however. The simple truth was he had no choice.

Jet didn't know who he was more pissed at: G.B. for attacking him, Black Ghost for creating the virus that _forced_ G.B. to attack him, or himself for getting caught completely off guard. No matter what the circumstances were, he couldn't believe that Great Britain of all people had just royally kicked his ass.

(Damnit, I just know I'll be hearing about that later, once all this crap has been sorted out and things get back to normal… G.B.'ll be ragging about that for _months_…)

Things would get back to normal, though. Jet refused to entertain any other possibility. In his mind, it was simple: first they'd track down G.B., overpower him, and haul his infected ass back to Gilmore's. Then the doc would whip up some cure, inject the shapeshifter with it, and voila! Britain'd be back to his typical annoying self in no time, cracking bad jokes and getting on everyone's nerves like nothing had ever happened.

…Okay, so Jet was enough of a realist to see the flaws in his own 'quick and easy solution' scenario. But, damnit…! Hadn't Black Ghost screwed up their lives enough already...?!

His right hand, the one that wasn't splayed against the trunk for absolutely vital support, slid down and into the pocket on the same side of his jacket. His fingers stroked the familiar curved surface of the top of his blaster. It was a small miracle that it hadn't fallen out; but then, he hadn't expected when he'd stuffed it in there that he'd be plummeting down a cliffside minutes later.

(Yeah, yeah, life's full of surprises, and most of them really suck.)

It was still there, though. Still in one piece, unlike the jacket itself. Not to mention his leg…

Jet ground his teeth together as a fresh spasm of pain crackled up his left side. The fingers of his left hand dug deeper into the bark, punching holes in the trunk: the fingers of his right curled round the base of the laser pistol. It didn't activate, however, which was good, since the resulting blast would have more or less decimated what remained of his jacket.

Feeling the weight of the gun resting in his hand, Jet wondered if he'd use it the next time he ran across his infected comrade.

(If it comes to that…)

His head snapped up abruptly; his senses may not have been as heightened as Francoise's, but his instincts served just as well. He knew with a sudden certainty that somebody was close by, though he couldn't say whom.

He had a few good estimates, though.

The gun was out of his pocket and ready in a flash of gleaming silver. Jet pointed the barrel in the direction he sensed the other was coming from.

Two possibilities were foremost in his mind. Either the new and improved psycho-007 was coming back, or Black Ghost had sent some of his latest toys to deal some more damage. If it was the latter, Jet was more than ready to pick them off the second they wandered within range. If the former…

Snarling a particularly vile, if unintelligible, word under his breath, Jet slid forward so that his back pressed up against the thick trunk. Gripping the pistol with both hands in order to keep it steady -- it was shaking just because of his injures, he angrily told himself -- he kept it level with the steadily approaching sound of footsteps and waited.

When he first glimpsed a flash of red through the dense green foliage, Jet inhaled sharply. It wasn't that he was swallowing a gasp of fear; rather, he was just bracing for the coming fight.

And when the interloper came close enough that he recognized the broad-shouldered outline, he let the breath he'd been holding out in a whoosh -- not a sigh of relief, but of mild disappointment that he'd been prepping for a fight only to get nothing.

At least, that's what Jet insisted to himself.

"G…Junior?"

"…Ah, there you are, 002," Geronimo stated, a smile softening his features as he emerged from the brush.

The pleasure that the giant cyborg gained from locating his friend was diminished slightly by the condition he was in. Geronimo's smile faded as his dark eyes roved over the hawkish boy's body, lips tightening into a thin frown when his gaze came to rest on his left leg. The scarf-turned-cast was tattered and filthy, yet Geronimo judged that it was probably in wonderful condition compared to what lay underneath.

Coming up from behind the Native American, Chang came to a dead halt when he saw the bedraggled Jet.

"What the… what happened to you?!" he blurted out, too startled to consider his words carefully.

"G.B. happened, that's what," spat Jet, bronze irises flashing with anger. Bad as the gash in his leg was, the injury to his pride seemed worse. "One minute he's babbling about not wanting to hurt anyone, the next I'm dodging Insta-blades courtesy of that shapeshifting lunatic."

(It slices, it dices, it's the new and improved pyschotic-007!) declared a snippy little voice in the back of Jet's mind. (Care of Black Ghost Industries, patent pending.)

Jet blinked, then placed a hand to his forehead as a fresh wave of dizziness swept over him.

(Damn, guess that fight took more out of me than I thought… well, that and the walk here… Okay, shut up, brain.)

Swaying slightly, Jet nearly dropped his laser, barely managing to jam it into its holster before hurriedly reinforcing his brace against the tree with both hands. Chang and Geronimo hurried over to his side, and he felt their grips supporting him before his vision cleared enough for him to properly see their worried faces.

"Jet? Are you okay?"

"Oh, sure, 006, I'm fine," replied Jet in a tone fairly dripping with sarcasm. "What's a little frickin' gash in my leg gonna do, anyway?"

"…We need to get you back to the house." Geronimo didn't sound the least bit fazed by the redhead's caustic declaration. "Doctor Gilmore should look at that right away."

"Okay, okay, I'm going."

Jet pushed away from the tree and, ignoring offers of support from the other cyborgs, started forward on his own. He took about two-and-a-half steps before unceremoniously falling to his left, injured leg going out from underneath him. Fortunately, his friends had anticipated this, and Geronimo caught him safely by the shoulders before he could hit the ground.

"Don't strain yourself!" Chang frantically scolded.

"I'm…fine," Jet grated through clenched teeth, ignoring as best he could the lightning jolts of pain coursing up his side.

"……" Geronimo shook his head once.

Without another word, the giant strongman scooped Jet up from behind. It was amazing how he could be both firm and gentle at once, carefully ensuring that his cargo's wounded leg wasn't jostled more than absolutely necessary. Hooking both of his thick arms underneath the redhead's lanky body, Geronimo stood up and started toward the house.

Jet's initial shock immediately gave way to indignation. A mortified blush started over the bridge of his nose and quickly spread, so that soon his entire face was a fierce shade of red that nearly matched his uniform. He couldn't exactly resist in his condition, so he resorted to loudly voicing his protest.

"Wha…what do you think you're _doing?!_"

"Taking you back home." Geronimo's explanation was clear and concise.

"Put me down, damnit! I can get there myself!"

The strongman failed to respond, keeping silent while continuing to carry the objecting Jet. The spike-haired punk soon realized that his protests fell on deaf ears, though this didn't keep him from muttering obscenities and glaring at his stoic protector.

Under other circumstances, Chang probably would have laughed at the absurd situation, or make some comment that would undoubtedly ruffle the hawk's feathers and get Jet screaming at him instead. At the moment, however, the firebreather's thoughts were elsewhere. He plodded along behind the pair, staring at the ground, turning things over in his thoughts.

(First Joe, then Jet, and Albert and Pyunma… that makes four of us that G.B.'s attacked so far… If this keeps up, then…)

Chang shook his head slowly. How was it possible that just yesterday morning, he'd been joking around and fighting with G.B. about the group picnic, and today it was increasingly looking like they would have to fight for real? There was a difference between squabbling with somebody and facing them in battle…

(…Doctor Gilmore will fix it, I know he will! I'm sure he'll come up with something… soon…)

Trying not to consider the possible alternatives, Chang scurried after Geronimo Junior and the sulking Jet.

~ * ~

Good, looks like they're on their way here, Ivan informed the rest of the team.

(So is 007,) was the thought the infant cyborg kept private. (With any luck, though, they might get here before him. He certainly isn't hurrying…)

Luck was not something Ivan was wont to trust in very often. It was a factor one could not effectively plan for or take into account; it couldn't be manipulated or created. Thus, Ivan preferred to consider more tangible influences. If they happened to be fortunate, so much the better; if not, all they could do was deal with it.

Britain was approaching the house at a steady, slow pace. Ivan wasn't certain why the shapeshifter wasn't rushing toward them at full speed, but he could hazard a few educated guesses. Britain obviously knew exactly where he was headed, so there was no real need for him to crash through the forest. Plus, after running into Albert and Pyunma before, it seemed probable he wanted to avoid alerting possible other sentries to his approach.

Foreseeing this, Ivan was making certain that Geronimo, Jet and Chang's path wouldn't intersect with the course Britain was taking. They didn't need a repeat performance of that last encounter.

Underneath his pale blue bangs, Ivan's glowing sapphire eyes narrowed slightly. Teleporting the unconscious pair to safety back home had taken quite a bit of energy, more than he'd wanted to expend. Not that he didn't consider it worth it; saving the lives of his comrades was easily worth every scrap of psychic energy he possessed.

It was simply that Ivan had a feeling he'd be doing a lot more work before this debacle was resolved… hopefully soon, and in a manner that wouldn't leave any of their number seriously injured, or worse.

Ivan grimaced around his pacifier; at the moment it was difficult for him to keep track of where Britain was. He couldn't get a firm lock on his coordinates because he couldn't establish a full connection between the shapeshifter's mind and his own.

In fact, he could barely 'feel' Britain at all. He'd attempted to explain this to Pyunma and Albert before without much success; how could he communicate to them exactly what the problem was when they couldn't experience it for themselves?

To be absolutely truthful -- although Ivan wasn't about to inform his comrades of this unless they happened to directly ask him -- if those two hadn't happened to run across Britain, he wasn't entirely certain he would have been able to locate him at all. He'd been trying prior to their discovery, only to come up with nothing.

As it was, he could track the shapeshifter, but only barely. It was like running a glitchy radar system, where only by knowing exactly what to look for and having a good idea of exactly where it was would enable somebody to locate what they were searching for.

There was a definite difference between knowing where Britain was and actually communicating with him, too. Ivan had been trying to hail him repeatedly, attempting all sorts of mental projections. He'd tried calling him by full name, nickname, and code number, crying, goading, screaming, pleading, all to no avail.

Ivan had heard Doctor Gilmore use the saying 'like talking to a wall' before, and felt it applied quite well in this situation. There was clearly something blocking him off from reaching Britain directly, a mental shield deflecting his telepathy.

It was probably another feature of the virus, he figured, for all the good that knowledge did him. Ivan wondering if anything was sinking through that obstruction; was Britain aware he was being called all this time? How much was he aware of, if anything at all?

There had been one brief flash where Ivan had felt anything concrete in return from the shapeshifter; that moment coincided with Albert's desperate attempt to save Pyunma. There'd been a burst of sharp pain, followed by a fierce rush of emotions radiating from the other -- anguish, terror, shock, fear.

He'd been hailing him for so long without any form of response that Ivan had been caught off guard. The channel he'd been fighting to establish was practically flooded for a moment, then, before he could react, it slowed to a trickle and was cut short.

That deluge, however brief, had given Ivan something to latch onto, at least. The infant cyborg had been beginning to wonder how far the virus's corruption had spread; if it was possible the infection affected Britain's mind as well. Judging from that burst, however, that simply couldn't be the case.

(It's taken the body, but not the mind…)

So how aware was Britain of what the virus was driving his body to do? If Ivan was to guess based on that short flood he'd detected alone, he'd have to say a great deal more than perhaps he should. Was he still able to see things through his own eyes?

Ivan shuddered, both physically and mentally. The concept of being trapped in one's own body chilled the young telepath to the core. While it was true he couldn't move around without levitating, just the thought of having his body do things not of his own accord…

"Are you alright, Ivan?" Francoise's sweet voice caressed his ears.

…003, do you think you could take me out of this for a while?

"…Oh, sure."

The female cyborg lifted Ivan from his bassinet and cradled him in her arms, noting with concern that he was trembling slightly. In the comfort of her embrace, however, his shuddering soon ceased. After calming down, Ivan glanced over to where the rest of their little group was gathered.

There were times where it seemed that Doctor Gilmore was nothing short of a miracle worker. It was a testament both to his skill as a scientist and the resilience of Pyunma and Albert that both were in considerably better condition now. True, their injuries had been mostly sustained from being flung around by Britain, but considering how horribly the encounter might have turned out, it was really quite amazing.

Pyunma was fully awake now, and was sitting beside Joe with his knees pulled up in front of him, arms folded on top of his bent legs. His uniform was still scuffed up and dirty, covered with chips of bark and bits of gravel, but he'd only just been brought back to consciousness and hadn't yet had time to go change. Nor did he appear to have any inclination to do so. His attention was focused elsewhere.

The sheen of sweat coating Doctor Gilmore's forehead glistened as he bent over to repair Albert's chest. This was more delicate work than what he'd had to do for Pyunma, and the slow process felt even more nerve-racking with everyone else watching him. He'd sent Joe out at one point to retrieve a fresh shirt from Albert's room; the other tunic was badly ripped where he'd been raked. Joe had returned quickly, tunic in hand, and hadn't moved from his seat since.

Finally sealing the last of the scratches, Gilmore groaned as he straightened back up, wiping his face with the cuff of his sleeve. Albert carefully sat up, absently running his left hand over his freshly repaired chest.

"Are you feeling better now, Albert?" Joe inquired, almost wincing at his own question.

The German regarded the younger cyborg solemnly with his liquid steel eyes. His gaze flicked over to Pyunma briefly, then returned to rest on Joe's concerned face.

"…I've felt better," he admitted, gingerly bringing his legs around in front of him so that he was now seated on the edge of the cot. "All things considered…"

You're lucky to be alive. Ivan might have attempted to be less blunt had he felt it worth the effort. There were more pressing matters at hand, though. You should know that somebody's coming that will try to remedy that.

He didn't bother to specify who; the others already understood exactly what he was talking about. Francoise held Ivan a little closer to her chest while the three male cyborgs glanced at one another. Gilmore lowered his gaze to the ground before closing his eyes entirely.

005 and 006 are headed back here with 002. Unfortunately, 002 needs to get his leg repaired at least before he can be any help. I don't know if they can get back here before he arrives, but I doubt that once he does get here he'll wait politely for Doctor Gilmore to finish. So… what are we going to do?

It was partly a rhetorical question; Ivan already had some notion of what the response would be. Sure enough, Joe got to his feet, garnet-stone gaze turning to each of his companions in turn.

"I'm going." It was as simple as that, Joe's voice carrying its usual quiet determination. "I have to try talking to him again, to bring him back…" His single visible eye rested longest on Francoise's face before dropping down to the child she held in her arms. "Ivan, just tell me where to go to meet him."

I'm not certain talking to him is going to have much effect, Ivan warned. It may be 007's body, but he's not the one in control right now.

"But I…" Joe closed his eyes.

"I'm going with you."

That caused the natural leader of the cyborgs to quickly reopen his eyes and look over as Pyunma got to his feet. The warfare specialist kept his arms at his sides, not bothering to brush the previously accumulated dirt off his uniform.

"You'll need somebody watching your back out there," he explained succinctly.

"That's right," and Albert pushed off the cot and stood up straight, pulling on the uniform jacket Joe had retrieved earlier. "It's better than sitting around here waiting, anyway."

"Joe…" Francoise faltered as Ivan looked up at her.

It's better if you stay here with the doctor and me, 003, the infant informed her privately. 002, 005 and 006 are going to need help when they get here, and besides…

"………" Francoise nodded hesitantly, aquamarine eyes reflecting her doubts. Looking over at the trio preparing to depart, she said, "Be careful."

"I suppose it's useless to tell you to try not to overexert yourselves," sighed Gilmore, shaking his head. "Still, try to be cautious."

"Of course, doctor," Joe nodded. Turning toward the door, he raised his hand to give a short wave to those remaining behind, saying, "We'll be back soon…"

(All of us,) he silently promised himself as he headed out with Albert and Pyunma close behind him.


	12. Disconnection

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Refer to the first chapter for the disclaimers. For those of you upset with me after reading this installment, please try to remember that it would be very difficult for me to continue should you happen to kill me. With that reminder, please… ahem… enjoy…?

~ * Disconnection * ~

There was no need to hurry; he would arrive at his destination soon enough. He passed the time by scanning his surroundings for any sign of pursuit or surveillance. There was always the chance the renegades would come to meet him rather than wait at their refuge.

It was pointless for them to hide, for he knew exactly where they were located. All of the host's thoughts and memories were accessible to the virus driving the body.

The targets would not flee. They would never choose to leave one of their own behind, no matter the circumstances. Even if they were to withdraw, it would be a simple matter to track them -- assuming they didn't return on their own.

This was the only use he had for emotions: they would drive the remaining rebels insane, and prevent them from fighting at full capacity.

All that remained of the original owner of this vessel, the one that would force them to pull their punches, was the disconnected, disheartened spirit. The virus had overridden the body, yet the mind remained.

This was not a problem, for it -- he -- lay ensnared, cut off, a prisoner locked within himself. The one who had taken such pride in calling himself 'Great Britain', 'G.B.', '007', was nothing more than a mere passenger. He would witness firsthand the destruction of the cyborg rebellion -- at his own hands, if not his own will.

Though his voice had been ripped from him -- the virus was not programmed to induce any sort of speech, for what good were simple words on a battlefield? -- Britain was still capable of thinking. He was perfectly aware of what his body was doing, despite his incapability to feel anything. He could still see though his own eyes.

It was strange… thanks to the disconnection, it seemed almost as if he were floating in some dark void. His only link to reality lay in what his eyes relayed… and in the occasional bursts of feedback during combat with the others.

He had felt the shuddering impact when his claws grazed Albert's chest, rending through the crimson fabric. He had felt his arm engulf Pyunma and lash the aquatic specialist to a tree. He had felt himself seizing hold of Albert as well and slamming him to the ground.

There was another facet to this feedback, one he had only recently become aware of: when the others injured his body, he could feel it. This had become apparent courtesy of 004's laser knife slicing cleanly along the length of his arm.

The wound had already sealed itself; apparently the virus also handled regeneration to some degree. Britain hardly thought anything of this, however, for he was far too distracted by other aspects of the event.

Albert had… attacked him. Albert had attacked him to save Pyunma from getting killed by him. Britain comprehended that, of course, but a part of him was still hung up on the fact that the German had actually used one of his weapons against him.

He'd noticed, when he first started assaulting the pair, what happened when Albert landed. He'd glimpsed his knee popping open, and how the steel-eyed cyborg immediately forced it shut. He'd seen how Pyunma kept restraining himself from drawing his blaster, going against his instincts.

It alternately relieved and horrified Britain to see them taking such pains to avoid hurting him. Sure, if they attacked him with everything they had and didn't hold back, there was a chance he'd die, but…

…If the alternative was to watch those he cared for perish at his hands…

…What happened, anyway, when a cyborg died? Britain had wondered about the subject for some time, though he hadn't the heart to broach the issue with any of the others. Such discussions were bound to quickly drop into the depressing, after all.

Now that he was cut off from any kind of contact other than what torture the virus chose to relay, however, Britain felt there was little left to lose in considering the topic.

For all their cybernetic upgrades, Britain was certain they still retained their humanity. That was never up to debate in his view. So perhaps it was possible that, when their bodies took enough damage that they could never be salvaged, they were able to pass on the same as any normal human would.

(Were 0010+ and 0010- reunited forever after Joe defeated them?) he wondered, almost idly. (Did 0011 regain his old body? I'm certain that 0012 was reunited with her husband, if there's any justice left in this world…)

(…And… if I happened to die today…)

Britain was almost shocked at how nonchalantly the thought came into focus. Dimly, he figured that he should be terrified at the notion; certainly he was scared enough of death that he was willing to fight Black Ghost alongside his comrades to prevent his untimely demise…

(…But… I'm not just fighting to protect myself, then. I know that, if I ever let Black Ghost defeat me, the others would be in danger too. We're stronger as a team, and have stood up against him for so long…)

Suspended in the void, without any fighting to distract him, the only feeling Britain was still capable of was his emotions. They were all he had left to sustain him. The icy sensation of depression was swelling deep within; it was something he was becoming increasingly familiar with as this nightmare wore on.

(…We're not a team anymore, are we? I've already hurt four of my friends… How could they see me as anything other than an enemy?)

There was a basic flaw with that reasoning, and in his heart Britain understood it. Yet, faced with the increasingly likely concept of facing his friends and allies in a duel to the death… he couldn't help but find the thought of losing to be infinitely more preferable.

(I… I want… to…)

His thoughts were cut short when his body's steady pace came to a sudden halt. He didn't feel himself stop so much as abruptly notice what lay before him.

Outwardly, his body gave no sign of the burst of turmoil that racked him within. There was no muscle twitch, no flash of recognition in his coldly staring eyes, no echo of the quiet gasp of despair Britain gave inside.

(Joe…)

~ * ~

Sometimes it seemed to Joe that fate had a very odd sense of humor.

Following Ivan's instructions, he, along with Pyunma and Albert, had decided to intercept Britain in an open field, not far from the house itself. According to Ivan, it was a preferable place to conduct their combat for several reasons, not the least of which was that it kept them from having to worry about maneuvering around a bunch of trees.

Just yesterday afternoon, Joe had used that same sort of reasoning against the assault pods Black Ghost had sent. He remembered seeing Jet luring a sizable amount of the weapons into the field so that they were easier to take down. He'd found it easier to fight them in the open as well.

Despite this, that battle had not ended so well in the long run. Certainly they had brought all of the pods down, but compared to what they now faced…

A breeze that was far too light and cool for his current mood kicked up, causing his bright yellow scarf to billow up and outward like a flag. Coupled with his straight posture, arms close to his side, with Pyunma standing in a similar pose behind him and slightly to his left, and Albert to his right, he probably cut an imposing, almost heroic figure.

Such a thought never occurred to the boy, however. His attention was solely focused on the figure that emerged from the woods at that moment.

Impassive marble eyes scanned slowly, deliberately, from one side of the field to the other before returning to lock with his ruby gaze. Behind him, Albert and Pyunma shifted their weight slightly, the latter keeping one hand hovering over his blaster while the former flexed the fingers on his right hand unconsciously.

Britain showed no astonishment at seeing the pair he'd fought standing before him whole and unhurt. Had the virus been capable of feeling concern, there would still be no cause for the useless emotion. After all, he had dealt with them before and nearly ended their part in the rebellion; he would do so again.

The silence hanging over the valley save for the soft whisper of the wind was almost maddening. Pyunma's fingers twitched; his instincts upbraiding him for not drawing his pistol. It was such a natural reaction for him to respond to an obvious threat by having his gun ready, yet he resisted. It wouldn't help the situation at all.

It almost didn't matter that the threat came from somebody he'd fought alongside for so long. He'd used the blaster so often when fighting against Black Ghost and their minions that it felt like almost a natural extension of his hand.

But if Albert, who he noticed was also struggling not to bring his right arm up and train the sights of his five-barreled gunhand on their opponent, could resist the impulse to prepare for another skirmish, then so could he.

Joe paid little attention to the silent struggles of his two partners. Shimmering garnet eyes searched the face of the shapeshifter for any sign of his old friend.

(This… can this really be G.B.? He looks so…)

The complete lack of emotion on the transformer's face, the neutral expression his features were composed in -- if such a look devoid of anything could be called an 'expression' -- was a horrible sight for Joe to behold. He was used to seeing what Britain was thinking clearly written all over his face. The actor always broadcast his emotions so clearly that the loss of those now was all the more terrifying.

Instead, Britain regarded Joe now with a cool detachment. All his glassy black eyes saw was an enemy cyborg… a prototype who had rebelled against the master and would be dealt with as such. A traitor…

"007… G.B.," Joe corrected himself.

Raising one hand, Joe carefully reached toward his former ally, though the distance between them was too great to be spanned by the length of his arm alone. He took a step forward, while his companions hung back, watching silently and waiting to see how this gambit would fare before reacting.

"G.B., it's…"

(Good to see you safe,) he wished to say, only his lips refused to allow such a barefaced lie to pass them. Britain was clearly not safe; he needed assistance badly, but what in the world could they do for him?

"…Please, come back to the house with us," he tried starting again. It was difficult to keep a tremor from entering his voice as he promised, "We'll have Doctor Gilmore look at you, and he'll find a way to… we can help you, I swear it."

Britain still didn't react, standing silently regarding the leader of the cyborgs with his glassy black eyes. He wasn't attacking, however, so Joe latched onto the hope that what he said was somehow registering.

"Listen… G.B.… I don't blame you for what happened before. It wasn't your fault. All we want to do is help you get through this. We'll find a solution… and then things can go back to the way they were, alright?"

It was hard to keep from babbling, to keep the words from rushing together the same way they did in his racing mind. But Joe was certain he was being received. He had to be; the thought of anything else was too crushing to bear.

"Come home with us, G.B.," he requested, still reaching invitingly toward the shapeshifter. "Everything will be okay, I promise…"

~ * ~

It was a pretty speech, Ivan thought, but who knew if it was making any impact.

Behind the infant cyborg's bassinet, there was a flurry of activity: the rest of their wayward group had just arrived, and Jet was arguing futilely with the others about the extent of his injuries. Only the stubborn redhead would find the thought of getting his wounds treated while others fought to be insulting, especially in his sorry state.

At the moment, Geronimo had managed to pin the lanky punk to the bed, each of his massive hands engulfing one of the aerial specialist's shoulders. Jet cursed as he struggled feebly, wishing he could just dart past the others and out of the house. Only problem with that was the fact that his left booster was more or less useless, along with the leg it was in.

Minor detail.

The important thing to him was that Joe -- _that idiot_ -- was out somewhere facing off against Britain with only Albert and Pyunma with him. He'd gathered that much from what the others were saying. But he knew for certain that there was no way those three alone would be able to handle the infected shapeshifter.

After all, _he'd_ been felled pretty handily, right?

"There's no way… we have to face him together, or…!"

"Stop struggling!" commanded Gilmore, using a tone of voice he sometimes seemed to use exclusively when dealing with Jet's stubbornness. "You can't go anywhere in your condition, you can barely walk as it is…!"

"Jet, please," Francoise pleaded, aquamarine eyes shimmering with concern. "Don't think about anything other than yourself right now. I'm sure Joe and the others will be just fine."

(Feh… Yeah, right.)

Chang stood back awkwardly, staring at the floor. He wasn't really needed to deal with Jet; he wanted to do something to help, but what else was there? He didn't know enough about chemistry to work on some sort of antidote while Gilmore was busy repairing Jet's leg, though the thought had occurred to him nonetheless. He could probably leave the house, actually, and go to…

…But he didn't want to leave, because there was only one place where he could offer assistance, and Chang wasn't eager to join in that particular aspect of matters.

(I don't want to fight G.B.… I can't…)

He knew Jet would call him a coward had he been able to read the chef's mind. Would the others be capable of understanding, or would they be disappointed in him… see him as being too weak to do what was right, to act accordingly…?

(But what… what is right, now…? What are we supposed to _do…?_)

Chang had no clue that his mental anguish was strong enough that Ivan was able to feel it clearly. The Russian cyborg briefly considered responding, but decided against it. He didn't have a satisfactory answer for his question.

Instead, Ivan refocused upon trying to elicit a response -- any sort of response -- from his virus-driven comrade. That would surely prove a key to bringing this nightmare to an end, even should Joe's continued pleas prove fruitless…

~ * ~

He could understand Joe perfectly, of course. The problem lay in the fact that he had no way of expressing it.

Inside the prison of his unresponsive body, Britain was silently screaming, shrieking out desperate responses despite the fact only he was capable of hearing himself. Hot, bitter tears would have been rolling down his cheeks had they only a chance to form. He didn't even have fists to drive uselessly into the barrier holding firm between him and his friends.

(I hear you, Joe… I'm here… You can't…)

Time was running out; he knew that at any moment his body would take advantage of Joe's refusal to attack and turn it against him. Though there was no chance his words would be heard by those he wanted to hear, Britain screamed anyway:

(Don't waste time on me, Joe,_ please! Just k…_)

Cutting himself short with a broken sob, Britain retreated further within himself, phantom tears falling as he tried to curl into a ball and vanish. Over and over again, he murmured a hopeless mantra.

(…too late… it's too late…)

~ * ~

"…G.B., please…"

Joe fell silent when he saw the Englishman shift his weight slightly, from one foot to the other. Behind him, Albert and Pyunma tensed, both nearly losing the battle with their warrior instincts. It was only through sheer force of will that kept either cyborg from readying their weapons.

But Joe suffered from no such lapse. Instead, he took one step closer, still reaching out toward Britain hopefully.

Then the earth beneath his feet exploded.

Joe stumbled, started to scream, then snapped his mouth shut and bit down hard on the trigger concealed in his back tooth.

Time slowed to a crawl -- at least from his perceptive.

Springing into the air, Joe got a clear view of what exactly was happening, something he couldn't have grasped so easily were he not able to see it frozen in this manner. His chest ached painfully, and he felt his spirits sag just a little as the hope that he'd been nurturing that his words were ringing true sputtered and faded.

"Oh, G.B.…" he sighed, voice heavy with disappointment -- aimed at himself more than the shapeshifter.

From his vantage point in midair, Joe could see clearly what he hadn't been aware of before. Britain had not merely been standing idle listening to his words; he could see now that part of the shapeshifter's body had burrowed underground, taking the shape of a thin, serrated edge. The ground exploding up from underneath him had been caused by him suddenly yanking that limb upward, planning to snare the leader from beneath while he talked.

Albert and Pyunma, meanwhile, were also beginning to spring clear; Joe could judge that much when he looked toward them. Both had been taken unaware by the attack as well, but since they weren't the primary target of the underground assault, they weren't in immediate danger…

Looking back toward Britain, Joe frowned, resolve gleaming in his single visible ruby eye. In a flash he stood before the transforming cyborg, emerging from acceleration mode and seizing 007 by the shoulders.

Now that he stood face to face with him, Joe could see just how dead and emotionless Britain's eyes were. The glass marbles failed to even reflect astonishment as their owner comprehended that the leader of the cyborgs now stood directly in front of them, their noses just inches apart.

Instead of shuddering and backing away, the way his body wanted to, Joe gripped the Englishman tightly and stared fully into his face.

"You have to fight this, 007!" he shouted, shaking the former actor out of desperation. "We'll find a way to beat this, so just hang on…!"

Joe's eyes widened when he felt Britain reach up and clasp his hands over his. His first impulse was to return the grasp, to try interlocking his fingers with those of his poor friend's and try to keep the connection alive.

Then the tortured screech of metal tore the air.

The garnet irises dilated, but remained solidly fixed on Britain's impassive face. With a slow, deliberately fluid movement, the bald cyborg extracted himself from the younger man's grasp.

"009?!" Albert screamed somewhere below, attracting attention to himself.

The detached black gaze swiveled to fixate upon him. Britain raised his arm, allowing the incredulous German and his dark-skinned companion to gaze upon what dangled from his hand.

Then, suddenly, he flung Joe back down toward them. The brown-haired youth's body rolled down over the grassy slope, coming to a rest at Pyunma's feet.

It felt to Albert like his knees were about to give out at any minute. All he could do was stare. Not down at the gasping, shuddering boy that lay at his feet, or at the shocked expression of his other companion.

His disbelieving silver-blue gaze was locked upon Joe's right leg, which still remained firmly clenched in Britain's raised hand.

Even as he watched, the shapeshifter tightened his grip, causing the already bent metal to screech as it was mangled further. Wires dangled haphazardly from inside torn fabric and flesh, and it was all Albert could do to keep standing as his body refused to allow him the small courtesy of looking away.

Finally, tossing the ruined limb aside, Britain gazed down upon the three cyborgs. His detached gaze settled upon the suffering Joe, and -- though Albert prayed he only imagined it -- his mouth seemed to briefly twitch upward into a sick mockery of his former companion's typical grin.


	13. Perception

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The first chapter has the disclaimers, for those of you interested. Hey, I didn't get as many death threats as I thought I would for the last installment…! Guess that means I won't have to worry about being seriously threatened for this one… at least, I hope not…

~ * Perception * ~

Francoise trembled, aquamarine eyes brimming with sudden tears. Shakily, her lips formed words, the faintest of whispers passing through, yet even that grated on her sensitive ears.

"…J…Joe…?"

"What happened?!" Jet demanded, almost managing to sit straight up despite Geronimo's huge hands clamped over his shoulders. "What's going on? What'd that idiot do now?!"

His near success with righting himself probably had much to do with the fact that Geronimo was distracted from his task of keeping the injured hawk relatively still. The giant's attention was focused on Francoise instead, his stoic face lined with worry.

"What happened, my dear?" Gilmore prompted, noting with concern how pale the female cyborg had become.

Fumbling for a chair, Francoise couldn't immediately bring herself to answer. She slumped down into her seat and covered her face with both hands, choking back sobs. It took a few minutes before she was able to look up from her tear-soaked palms to meet the gazes of the rest of her friends.

"…Joe… G.B., he… his leg…"

She stumbled over the words, not quite able to relate the horror she had witnessed through the curse of her enhancements. Ivan was unable to help her, for the youngest cyborg was too engrossed in his efforts to contact Britain. Gilmore was preoccupied with his work on Jet's leg; although he wasn't currently focused on it, he couldn't move away from the cot to go comfort the poor girl. Jet and Geronimo couldn't help, either, for obvious reasons.

It was Chang who ended up stumbling to her side, awkwardly laying an arm across her quaking shoulders.

"Francoise… what…" he faltered, uncertain he wished to know.

"…He ripped off his leg, Chang!" blurted Francoise, giving her friends an anguished look. "He tore his leg off!"

She descended into wretched sobs again, burying her face in her hands, while the other cyborgs and the scientist struggled to comprehend this information.

There was no confusion on who, exactly, had torn off whose leg. Though it was a horrifying prospect to consider either way, the thought that Joe could be driven to such a violent action was far more impossible than that their infected comrade…

"Damnit…" cursed Jet weakly, pushing up to find renewed resistance from Geronimo's gentle but firm hands. "…Knew that idiot would…"

"………" The strongest cyborg closed his dark eyes, and seemed to briefly contemplate something. When he reopened his eyes, Geronimo squeezed Jet's shoulders for a moment before releasing him and standing up.

"…Chang."

The stout chef looked over and, already guessing what his partner was going to do, nodded reluctantly. Gently covering Francoise's hands with his, he looked straight into her watery eyes and nodded.

"…Don't worry," he promised softly, "everything will turn out alright."

The blonde gazed at him, silently questioning just who he was trying to convince with his words: her or himself. Awkwardly Chang looked away, turning toward Geronimo as the giant rose to his feet and strode toward the exit.

"W…wait!" Now that he was no longer being restrained, Jet easily pushed up and swung his feet off the side of the cot, failing to completely hide his wince as the inside of his injured leg hit the bed. "I'm…"

"You'll remain here and get the repairs you need." Though Geronimo spoke softly, his tone left no room for argument. "006 and I can handle assisting Joe and the others by ourselves."

"…Yeah, and I bet Joe figured pretty much the same thing when he went off to 'help' 007 in the first place," muttered Jet under his breath.

To his credit, however, the spike-haired cyborg did remain seated on the cot instead of pushing farther. He didn't lie back down, but he made no further move to try and force his way after the others. Geronimo exchanged a quick glance with Chang, and both nodded once, then headed out the door.

Doctor Gilmore mopped his furrowed brow with the back of his hand. The room was just getting emptier and emptier; out of everyone who had been gathered there that morning, only four remained. One was currently out of action due to the gash in his leg, their only female member was disconsolately staring off into space, and the youngest of their number's mind was elsewhere.

"Hey, Doc."

Gilmore turned; Jet's sharp bronze eyes glittered dangerously under his fiery bangs. It was a sure sign that the hawkish lad was plotting something, and the scientist gave a resigned little sigh.

"What are you up to, Jet?"

"Listen, we don't have time. Just patch up my leg so I can walk on it, and I'll be out of your hair in…"

"What do you mean?! You can't be planning to…"

"Hey, we can't waste time arguing!" Jet interrupted, glaring the doctor down. "Joe's already been hurt a lot more than this little scratch, and from the sound of things, it's only gonna get worse. I'm not gonna tie you up working on this when everyone else needs your help! We can get back to it later, after we've sorted this crap out!"

"…But, 002, if I…"

"I know, I know, I won't be able to use the booster, blah, blah, blah. I've fought using only one before! Just seal it up so I can walk, then get to work on a cure or something for that damn virus!"

Gilmore met Jet's harsh stare for a few more seconds, then bowed his head with a sigh and a tired nod. The grounded flyer smirked, but there was no pleasure or sense of victory in his tight expression. He flopped back down flat on the cot, eager to get the gash in his leg sealed up and be on his way.

Francoise stared in horror as the scientist set to work, then averted her shimmering blue-green eyes. Had it really come to the point where they had to cut corners and possibly endanger their health more than it already was?

The image of wires snapping and muscle ripping flashed before her gaze, and Francoise squeezed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block it out, or at least stem the tears she felt welling at the vivid memory.

And all the while, Ivan sat silent in his bassinet, broadcasting a telepathic signal in the hopes that it would be received by the infected cyborg.

~ * ~

Outwardly, 007 was smirking.

Inside, Britain was screaming.

When he'd first felt the shudder of metal and sinew bending and breaking in his hands, Britain's first thought was (Oh God, I'm killing him.)

Joe was face to face with him, the desperation lighting his bright garnet eyes slowly dying out, replaced by agonizing realization. But still, even as his face twisted with pain, the vaguest spark of hope remained. G.B. got the fleeting impression that somehow, his leader understood he had no part in what his body was doing, and already… forgave him for his action before it was completed.

Then he'd felt something give way, heard the terrible screech of what he held being torn asunder, and found himself shrieking accompaniment, convinced he was killing the poor lad.

It was only after Joe was tossed aside, back down to where Albert and Pyunma stood staring, that Britain comprehended that he hadn't murdered him. …Yet, anyhow.

But the fact that he was still holding what remained of the Japanese cyborg's right leg wasn't exactly a comforting alternative.

He'd wrenched the limb almost completely out of its socket; from his vantage point above the others he could see how only a few haphazardly dangling wires and strands of other materials hung out from beneath the flap of the poor soul's jacket. The rest of the mangled limb lay where it had been tossed aside, tattered and useless.

The mere concept made Britain wish he was still capable of fainting. That would have been about the extent of his reaction had he witnessed such a horrible thing from any other perspective. And the fact that he'd been the one to…

His body began to move again, and all G.B. could do was pray that, at least, the others would finally stop holding back now that it was clear there was no way he could afford them mercy.

~ * ~

Britain was advancing again, taking slow, measured steps toward the cluster of three cyborgs at the base of the grassy slope.

Albert raised his right hand, metallic fingers straightening and locking together as he held his arm out toward the shapeshifter. The gesture seemed almost the opposite of how Joe had stood with one hand offered hopefully toward his friend.

But now the result of that kindness lay at his feet, gasping and shuddering.

Carefully Albert stepped around Joe, positioning himself between the injured cyborg and the transformer. Behind him, Pyunma knelt over his fallen comrade and struggled to keep composed. Panic wasn't going to solve anything.

"Hang on, Joe, I'll get you out of here," he promised, whispering both to keep from being overheard and to keep his voice from cracking.

Joe responded by moaning lowly. His face was tight with pain, and even though Pyunma struggled to find a medium between carefulness and speed as he hastily propped the younger man against his side, the Japanese boy continued to groan.

The combat specialist couldn't keep a few shudders of his own from rippling down his spine as he laid one of Joe's arms along the back of his shoulders and gripped his back tightly. He tried not to look at where the missing leg should have been, and avoided glancing over to where what remained of the limb lay now.

"Ze…ro-zero-e…ight…" the youth managed to grate out between gasps.

"Don't talk," ordered Pyunma.

"B…but…" Joe attempted to look around, but could barely raise his head. His thick brown bangs hung limply, completely obscuring the right side of his face. "…G…"

"I'll handle 007," Albert called over his shoulder, risking a swift glance back at his comrades. "Get 009 out of here, 008!"

Pyunma nodded. Joe coughed and gritted his teeth, redoubling his efforts to move. But his already badly damaged body refused to respond, and it was all he could do to hang off of Pyunma's side as the aquatic expert turned him away.

Albert turned his full attention back toward Britain; the shapeshifter was still walking slowly toward them, and didn't appear to be concerned by their actions at all. Quite the contrary, for his formerly neutral features seemed to have frozen in the cruel grin he had assumed after separating Joe's leg from the rest of his body. One side of his mouth quirked a bit higher than the other, a crooked little smirk that, combined with the glassy sheen of his contracted pupils, made it clear there was no trace of their former friend to be found here.

Albert almost missed the lack of expression now.

Behind him, Pyunma gave a quick little hunch of his shoulders to ensure Joe's weight lay comfortably against him. Then, holding the younger man close to his side, he broke into a run.

Britain's right arm snapped upward, stretching and lengthening, then split the air with a vicious crack as the tapered whip-point streaked at the fleeing pair's backs.

Steeling his nerves, silver-blue eyes narrowed with concentration, Albert opened fire.

The first round of bullets tore into the ground just at 007's feet, tearing neat little holes in front of his boots. Without flinching -- without losing the same fiendish grin -- the infected cyborg sprang backwards, folding his legs up beneath him then snapping them out rigid inches before impact, nailing the landing perfectly. The tip of his whip-arm curved backwards then shot forward again, this time arcing toward the German's head.

Rolling to the side, Albert hit the ground running directly toward his opponent, still firing, his shots gouging the grass out from under Britain's blurring feet. He was moving too quickly for him to hit -- or perhaps his aversion to the concept of hurting someone he'd fought alongside was affecting his aim as well.

Abruptly the Englishman dropped down. The suddenness with which he fell caught Albert off guard, and he stopped firing, wondering if one of his bullets had struck home.

The grass rippled, and from the spot where Britain had fallen something sleek and scarlet and swift shot out across the field.

Startled, Albert's steely eyes widened as he vaguely comprehended that it was some sort of wildcat -- though his fur was a bloody hue not often found in nature.

(Animal forms now…?!)

The beast bounded along, crimson fur undulating with each graceful stride. Its finely shaped paws were rapidly closing the distance between the feline and its prey… not the astonished German, but the pair of cyborgs trying to flee the field.

"008, 009, watch it--!" warned Albert.

There was no way he'd get close enough for his machinegun-hand's range in time. Dropping to a crouch, he snapped his knee open. The rocket spiraled forward with a trail of thick smoke in its wake.

Hearing the wail of the missile, and the rapidly approaching footsteps of the predator, Pyunma risked a glance backwards. For a moment all he could see was the white flash of the feline's bared teeth, the gleam of hooked claws extending toward his back.

Then a violent burst of smoke and flame flooded the air as the rocket struck the soil between them. The blast was almost completely underneath the springing shapeshifter's belly, and the false feline was flung backwards by the force, losing control of his transformation.

For an instant, Pyunma perceived through the shock, he got the fleeting impression that Britain's reverting hand was reaching toward him in a pleading rather than threatening manner.

But the moment swiftly passed, and as the dust began to clear from the missile strike and Joe stirred and moaned softly beside him, Pyunma shook his head, turned, and kept running.

Albert was running, too. He couldn't help it; his heart lurched painfully when he witnessed Britain's reverting body being flung by the blast. He forced himself to stop a safe distance from the point of impact. Fearful for his friend's safety or not, he wasn't about to make the same mistake Joe had.

Britain lay flat on his back, face turned away from where the German stood. The front of his uniform was singed. From where he was, Albert could see that the trailing end of his scarf had been crisped off, hanging in tatters.

With a sudden lurch the transformer righted himself, getting to his feet. His head twisted around so that he was staring directly at Albert, briefly contorting his neck at an unnatural angle. The rest of his body followed, pivoting with a creepy smoothness.

His callous black eyes boring holes into the silver-haired cyborg, the rest of Britain's features slowly rearranged into the horrible smirk he'd worn before. It almost seemed like he judged Albert's aversion to it and adopted it accordingly.

Then he lunged, forcing his former partner back into their murderous dance.

~ * ~

Black Ghost was pleased.

The obnoxious leader of the rebel 00-number cyborgs was no longer a major part of the problem. His acceleration mode, once the pride of their scientists only to be turned against them, was effectively disabled.

What good was a speed demon who couldn't run?

His pleasure could be heard in the chilling echo of his laughter through the base. Micro-cameras were recording every detail of the skirmish, relaying what they captured back to nearly every monitor in the lair in real-time.

Doctor Tenkan didn't know how far the broadcast extended beyond the scope of his chambers. It was possible the video feed was being routed to other key secret areas so that more loyalists could enjoy the live combat. More likely, however, Black Ghost was holding back on that until every last one of the cyborgs was either dead or no longer a threat to the organization.

As for the scientist, his attention was actually focused less on the fight and more on the data readouts before him. Though the skirmish played on in the background, he continued to work tirelessly, monitoring the situation from all possible sides.

Elsewhere in the base, the commander in charge of seeing the operation through to the end -- the latest in the line of soldiers assigned to this project -- tapped his fingers impatiently against the console he sat in front of. Though he joined the cheers of his allies at the sight of prototype 009 being torn apart, his brow was now lined with worry.

Prototype 009 may have been dealt a telling blow, but it appeared that he and prototype 008 were on the verge of outdistancing their infected comrade. The shapeshifter had turned his deadly attentions toward the walking arsenal, leaving the pair free to flee the battlefield.

That couldn't be allowed to happen. It would be his head if the project failed now…!

Quickly, the general began keying new commands. The accursed leader of the cyborgs wouldn't escape on his watch…!

~ * ~

Pyunma did not possess an acceleration mode of his own, but his experiences prior to capture by Black Ghost had given him a much more complete set of combat instincts than could be easily programmed. He'd been forced to carry wounded comrades away from immediate danger even before his conversion.

He knew what he was doing, so he retained enough awareness of his surroundings to recognize the familiar high-pitched wail of a charging laser before it sliced through the air.

But there wasn't enough time to dodge, and he had to settle for pushing Joe to one side while twisting his body in the other direction.

The shot tore through his left shoulder, and Pyunma winced from the sudden pain even as he thanked the stars that Joe's head was no longer resting there as it had just seconds before.

Hitting the ground hard, he rolled, snapped his legs up underneath him, turned and fired, his own laser cutting a thin blue beam through the crisp air.

The gutted assault pod dropped to the ground, smoke billowing from the melted gash that bisected it cleanly across the front. But even as it fell, Pyunma could see several more of the large black hovercrafts rising from behind. Sunlight glinted off the smooth ebony hulls of at least a dozen floating weapons as they spread out to surround the two cyborgs.

Pyunma crouched protectively beside Joe, gripping the shaft of his blaster with both hands. He spared a quick glance down to his partner; Joe lay on his side, remaining good leg curled up beneath him, body racked with shudders. The Japanese youth's own laser pistol remained in its holster, for there was no way he could aim reliably in his condition, let alone fight.

Gritting his teeth, Pyunma aimed at the nearest of the assault pods. His eyes narrowed into challenging slits, navy blue irises churning like storm-tossed oceans, as if silently daring his foes to try and harm them. To do so would be courting their own demise, for he wasn't about to let his friend down.

The black tide of weapons paused only a moment, quivering in place, before descending on their quarry.


	14. Subjugation

__

The disclaimers are in the first chapter. For those of you interested in my shoddy attempts at fanart, there are a few Cyborg 009-related sketches on my Deviantart account.

~ * Subjugation * ~

Chang really envied Geronimo Junior at the moment.

The tallest and strongest of the cyborgs showed no signs of exhaustion or even exertion as he led the way toward the battlefield. His proud features were schooled into their typical stoic bearing… or, at least, so Chang figured. He couldn't say for certain since for most of the way over he'd been trailing along behind, staring at the back of his companion's head and struggling to keep up.

Amazing, Chang thought, that G-Junior could sustain such a brave front considering they were charging headlong into a nightmare.

As for the portly chef, he only wished he could act half that strong. His legs ached a little from the amount of running around they'd been doing, and he wondered if he'd even be able to stand proudly beside his comrades once they arrived.

(…Well, Joe won't be doing any standing anytime soon…)

Chang mentally kicked himself for letting such a terrible thought cross his mind. He hadn't even seen Joe yet; maybe his injury wasn't as bad as it sounded when Francoise reported it. After all, considering the feelings he was pretty certain the lovely blonde harbored for their leader, it wouldn't be hard to believe that just the fact he'd been wounded by one of their own might cause her to become frantic, maybe exaggerate how terrible things were…

(She said his leg was ripped off. That doesn't sound like exaggeration… Um, how _much_ did she mean was torn off…?)

"Stay alert, 006!" Geronimo's deep voice boomed back to him.

Chang snapped out of his dark reverie and looked around frantically. There was a note of alarm in the strongman's tone, causing Chang to briefly wonder just how concrete the Native American's brave front was. The thought was quickly dismissed, however, as he spotted what his partner was attempting to warn him about.

The black hovercrafts were almost a familiar sight by now, their round ebon hulls gleaming in the sun as they crested the hillside and flew toward the pair. A volley of lasers shot from the small wave, beams of light slicing cleanly through the crisp air.

Geronimo sidestepped to the left; Chang dove to the right. With a deep bellow of wordless challenge the giant charged, closing the distance between him and the weapons with several quick strides. His massive fist shattered the front of the first pod he reached and emerged on the other side. Rather than waste time pulling his arm back out, Geronimo allowed it to hang off his wrist, utilizing the shattered hulk as a makeshift shield against counterstrikes while tearing into the rest.

Meanwhile, Chang rolled to a stop, somehow managing to land on his feet other than his side. Turning to face away from where his comrade was cleaning up, he took a deep breath, exhaling a volley of white-hot flames. The wave of fire engulfed the pods before him and melted them into useless chunks of molten metal that fell to the ground.

This sort of battle, Chang could face without hesitation. Not that he was glad to see the Black Ghost creations, by any means; their presence only confirmed his fears that the shadow organization was aware of their current dilemma.

(It only makes sense, since Doctor Gilmore said they were probably responsible for that virus, but still…)

Between his fiery assault and Geronimo's relentless pounding, the first wave of pods was soon reduced to wreckage. With a flick of his wrist, Geronimo popped the pathetic remains of his temporary blockade off his arm. He turned to Chang at the same time that the Chinese chef cut off his blazing breath and looked back toward the giant questioningly. The taller cyborg's dark eyes reflected the concern that didn't touch his stony features.

He didn't need to say a word, for Chang was already thinking among the same lines that he was.

(If those things are here, then the others…)

Even as the thought solidified, both heard the familiar whine of a charging laser pistol -- recognizable as the same make as the ones they wore on their belts. By the time the shot tore through the air, they had already turned and were racing in that direction, Chang laboring to keep up with his partner.

It wasn't his fault his legs weren't quite as long as his muscular ally's, after all.

The cacophony of rapid shots continued as they reached a point where they could finally see the source. Chang saw Geronimo stop first, and was privately thankful for the hesitation for it gave him a chance to catch up. His thankfulness faded, however, when he came up beside the giant and got his first chance to see what had given his partner pause.

Another group of black pods was floating in a tight circle, hovering over the smoking hulks of several of their fallen brethren. In the center of that cluster stood Pyunma, pistol drawn and firing repeatedly, turning and twisting in a desperate attempt to strike down the closest of the weapons with each shot.

More alarming, however, was the fact that there was something lying at his feet, something the aquatic specialist was crouching protectively over at the cost of sacrificing most of his mobility. At first, Chang couldn't tell what was spread out beneath Pyunma like a crimson shadow, not until he caught a glimpse of brown hair and a limp yellow scarf and his mind filled in the blanks.

"008! _009!_"

Even as Chang screamed that, his partner was already charging down the hill, fist pulling back in anticipation of his first blow. He was quick to follow, pulling air into his lungs in preparation to launch another wave of fire at the blasted weapons.

Pyunma looked up sharply, and relief lit the depths of his dark navy eyes even as he whirled away to take out a pod drawing too close from behind. One of his shoulders jerked violently from the sudden movement, and Pyunma gritted his teeth silently against the pain.

The black tide shuddered, then was pierced by an eruption of flames courtesy of Chang. While the chef concentrated on his machine flambé, Geronimo punched through those not consumed by the fires and stood beside Pyunma, hovering protectively over him much in the same manner that the dark-skinned man stood over Joe.

Chang maneuvered himself around to stand beside them, and despite himself couldn't avoid glancing down at their fallen leader while doing so. Belatedly he realized that Francoise hadn't been exaggerating. If anything, the reality was far worse than what he'd dared imagine.

(His leg's _completely_ gone! Ohhh…)

There wasn't time to goggle at the loss of the limb, however, not when the black tide still needed to be stemmed. In a way, Chang was almost thankful for the distraction of fighting off the weapons. Flaming them meant not having to think about Joe lying prone behind him, rendered completely helpless. It meant not having to think about…

Soon -- almost all too soon, though surely the fight was much longer than he believed since he spent most of it functioning on a sort of autopilot, blasting the pods without thinking -- the last of the weapons was reduced to twisted ruins. The shattered black husks lay scattered around them, dark technology now little more than metal corpses.

With the immediate threat having passed, Geronimo and Chang turned their attention to their other comrades. Pyunma dropped into a crouch next to Joe's side and gripped the younger cyborg's shoulder.

"Hang in there, 009," he instructed. "See, 005 and 006 are here for you, too. It's gonna be alright…"

Joe tilted his head slightly to the side, enough that he could see Geronimo and Chang crouching on his other side. His garnet eyes, still mostly hidden by his thick, tangled bangs, seemed dimmer than before, their brightness dampened by the haze descending over his senses. The right side of his body from the waist down felt numb; he vaguely comprehended that his leg was no longer there and wondered at the lack of pain, not quite realizing he was accustomed to it.

"…ro…zero…nnn…?"

He twitched, left shoulder jerking as he made a weak attempt to push up from the ground. Geronimo's gentle hands folded over the boy's shoulders, his mouth set in a firm line. Then his dark gaze tracked up from where his leader lay to rest on Pyunma.

"You're wounded." It was a statement, not a question.

"It's nothing," replied Pyunma with forced levity, unconsciously raising his right hand to try and cover his left shoulder.

The action didn't work too well considering he was still holding onto his pistol. Instead of holstering it, however, he held tightly onto the blaster and settled for not covering his wound with the palm of his hand.

"Nothing?" Chang echoed incredulously.

It was a clean shot, a circular burn the same diameter as the laser that had caused it. The intense heat of the blast had already cauterized the wound, and it didn't appear to have burned clear to the other side. It was still a disturbingly deep gash, however, and no matter what Pyunma insisted Chang refused to believe that it couldn't hurt when he moved the joint.

Geronimo felt a similar sense of disbelief, but decided it was best not to pry into the matter when there were more important tasks at hand.

"Where is 004?" he inquired bluntly.

"He stayed back with 007 in order to buy us time to escape."

Pyunma's deep eyes flashed at his own admission, making it obvious he felt guilty at the prospect of leaving his partner behind to face their infected comrade. Not that he'd had much choice in the matter; Britain wasn't about to allow them to leave willingly, especially not after dealing such a crippling blow to his leader…

Chang squirmed uncomfortably. Even though he now saw firsthand the sort of destruction that Britain had wrought under the influence of the virus, there was still a sense of unreality about the whole affair. The thought that G.B. was the one to tear Joe's leg off… that he was probably off fighting against Albert at that moment…

Averting his eyes from Joe's prone figure, Chang stared off into the distance and struggled to clear his mind. There must be something they were overlooking, some way of resolving this nightmare without anyone else coming to serious harm…

(If only Doctor Gilmore had a cure for the virus… If only we could've kept G.B. from feeling like he had to run away… If only…)

Catching sight of movement out of the corner of his eye, Chang turned quickly in that direction. He gasped, breath catching painfully in his suddenly constricted throat, and stumbled to his feet. Alerted by his actions, Geronimo and Pyunma followed the line of his gaze, and stared.

A figure wearing the same uniform as they were was steadily approaching. The tattered length of his scarf billowed out behind his straight, proud figure, despite the fact it was torn in several places and the end was charred off. The rest of his attire was in relatively good condition, though the chest seemed a little blackened.

The way that Britain's face was twisted by a nasty little grin -- that was the most frightening part of his appearance.

Gaping at the new arrival, Chang fought to keep his sudden bout of shuddering under control. His eyes felt fit to bulge out of their sockets, his thoughts quickly focusing on one terrible question:

(If he's here, then Albert…?)

The same question loomed large in the minds of his companions, though Geronimo and Pyunma kept their faces schooled into carefully neutral, determined expressions as they rose to their feet.

There was no sign of the living arsenal anywhere. Pyunma took little comfort in the fact that the shapeshifter didn't appear to be carrying a piece of his opponent with him. That didn't keep the image from rising in his mind of Albert having his leg wrenched off exactly the same way Joe's had been, or even worse…

"Ze…006," he hissed under his breath, never taking his eyes off the approaching Britain. "Think you can get past him?"

"Ah… Sure, but why?" faltered Chang.

"See if you can go find 004. He probably needs help, and if any of those pods are still about…"

He didn't need to finish his sentence. Chang nodded quickly, then gazed back toward Britain, watching the Englishman come slowly and steadily closer. Briefly his fears warred with each other: he definitely didn't want to fight his friend, and he was worried sick about Albert, but leaving Pyunma, Geronimo and Joe behind to face the shapeshifter while he scurried off to find the German…

No matter what decision he made, it was going to weigh heavily on his conscience until this mess was resolved.

Still Britain was striding toward them, obviously in no rush to confront his next victims. The same lazy smirk contorted his face. Chang tore his gaze away and stared steadfastly at the ground instead, making a few quick judgements on the lay of the land before making his choice.

"You guys… be careful!" he called, casting a final glance back at the trio, trying hard to avoid getting a clear look at the empty socket where Joe's leg should have been.

Turning away, he wrenched his eyes shut and summoned a steady stream of flame, searing a hole into the ground in front of him and diving through.

After he disappeared underground, Geronimo nodded to himself and turned back to face his opponent, standing steadfastly beside Pyunma. Both interposed themselves between the oncoming shapeshifter and their injured leader, while behind them Joe shuddered and struggled in vain to move.

Pyunma raised the sights of his blaster, gripping it with both hands. His shoulder gave a painful throb that he ignored to the best of his ability. He only allowed himself a slight wince as he brought his weapon level with the approaching figure.

(G.B.… What happened to Albert? Did he go too easy when fighting you?)

The most terrifying possibility, the one he tried to keep repressed, was the same one keeping his sights steady on the approaching enemy. There wasn't any more room for mistakes -- hadn't he made enough already? By leaving Albert behind instead of insisting they leave together, even with the knowledge Britain would keep coming unchallenged, he might very well have condemned his partner to…

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Pyunma fired.

The crescent-shaped wave of light seared through waving grass and clear blue sky, for Britain had sprung up and was now closing the gap between them more rapidly, his arm morphing into a hooked set of claws.

Geronimo ran forward to meet their enemy, massive hands balling into tight fists. Pyunma hung back, standing protectively over Joe as the brown-haired youth groaned with agony. Raising his gun, Pyunma prepared to squeeze off another shot whenever the opportunity arose to help keep the infected cyborg away from their commander.

~ * ~

Sweat trickled down the side of Doctor Tenkan's neck, a distinctly uncomfortable sensation. How was it that the plan could go so well and so wrong at the same time?

How foolish it had been for the latest commander to release the assault pods prematurely. Those were supposed to be reserved as a last resort should the infected cyborg fail to complete his mission. Were it to become apparent that he was no longer capable of defeating his former allies, they were intended to be sent in and recover him -- along with any properly dispatched cyborgs.

Instead, the vast majority of the remote-control weapons were now nothing more than wasted metal and resources, shattered shells lining the field with debris. So much for their backup plan.

Despite this, there was still an air of impending victory in the base, one the scientist could detect even without leaving the cramped quarters of his personal station. The leader of the rebels was still incapable of putting up any more resistance, though the efforts of his comrades were keeping him alive for the time being. Already another major threat to their plans, the walking arsenal, had been dispatched and left for dead.

Doctor Tenkan only wished he could confirm that casualty. But the micro-cameras were programmed to follow after the infected cyborg: Black Ghost wanted to record every moment of glorious battle for posterity.

Perhaps he was being over-cautious. After all, the virus was still performing beautifully, all told. It was utilizing the prototype spy unit's transformation ability as an effective weapon, adapting to the situation as needed.

Yet Tenkan knew he wouldn't feel remotely safe until after it was confirmed that all of the rebels had been destroyed. To celebrate beforehand would be foolish.

~ * ~

It… hurt.

Breathing… sent ripples of agony coursing through him even as the life-giving air alternately filled and fled his lungs.

(…is it… worth it…?)

Twitch…

Fingers quivered slightly, aching tips stirring the grass they rested against.

His body was still in one piece… more or less. He knew only because of the pain flooding through his frame. The feedback streamed from every part of his body, from his fingers to his toes, from his arms to his legs.

"…ugh…"

He coughed, and regretted it, for the way it jerked his chest only intensified the pain racking his body. Movement wasn't a good idea, then.

The sky loomed above him, the grass cool against his back. Ironic that he could feel such suffering while the world remained so beautiful… detached from his private agony.

But, then, what use would nature have for him, someone who often felt more machine than man?

Eyes of cool blue steel, frosted with the pain coursing through his prone body, gazed upon the indifferent skies above. Perhaps it was best this way… at least the day itself was nice, if not what was happening during it.

(…stupid… can't believe…)

He should have known better. He should have watched himself better. He was a much more skilled fighter than this, and shouldn't have fallen so easily. …He'd been rebuilt for the sole purpose of combat, for God's sake!

…He'd held back. Even after witnessing what Britain had done to poor Joe… even after his hesitance nearly cost Pyunma and Joe their chance to escape… he couldn't bring himself to fight with everything he had.

His wounds throbbed… another cough jarred his body. He started to grit his teeth against the pain, reflexively, then relaxed. It wouldn't accomplish anything.

…He had failed.

(…stupid… mistake…)

Too distracted by his attempts to subdue Britain without hurting him too bad, making certain to fire at the shapeshifter's surroundings rather than the transformer himself, he'd failed to notice what was, in retrospect, an obvious tactic.

It had happened so quickly… Britain's right arm, transmuted into a whip, cracked out at his face, and he dodged aside, keeping a close eye on the twisting length. He hadn't noticed until Britain turned his body slightly that his left arm appeared to be missing.

…Only it hadn't been missing. But Albert hadn't comprehended the truth until the first of the thin wires snared his ankle and pulled him to the ground.

Too quickly, he'd been bound; Britain's other arm snaking round his waist and morphing into a match for his other limb. The whip broke off into thinner extensions, each about the width of a finger, winding across his body and arresting his movements.

Then, when he was completely bound and couldn't move, could barely even breathe for the wire looped around his neck, the constrictions tightened -- and sharpened.

Razor-sharp ropes dug into his body, slicing cleanly through his uniform and into the metal and flesh beneath. Albert would have screamed from the sudden pain if he'd only been able to force his voice through the tight noose engulfing his neck.

Oddly, that had been the only one that didn't cut through him like a bendable blade. Had that been the case, he surely would have died from the resulting slice in his neck -- if he hadn't been beheaded outright.

It also seemed strange how the force had slackened after a while, his binding coming loose and allowing him to slide onto the soft grass. Dimly through the haze he'd heard the quiet crush of grass underfoot as his tormentor walked away, leaving him to die.

…Leaving him to die… that had to be what it was. Whatever was driving his former friend now must have somehow judged that his injuries would soon end his life, and left him to suffer alone while it moved on to other targets…

(…Pyunma… Joe… did I buy you enough time…?)

Another cough racked his lungs, and Albert resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut from grief and self-loathing.

Probably the answer was no. For all he knew, Britain had already caught up to them by now and was finishing what he'd started. His sense of time was fading, and the blue expanse above him was no help whatsoever in judging how much had passed.

(…I failed… everyone…)

Fingers twitching against the grass, a useless hand of gunmetal gray.

(…Pyunma… Joe… G.B.…)

Ghostly impressions of the faces of his friends hung before his blurring vision, and Albert refused to close his eyes to them, believing he deserved this torment for his failure.

(…forgive me… I couldn't… save any of you…)

Why was it that, when those he cared for needed him the most, he always seemed to fall short? Albert asked himself that silently while waiting for the final darkness to come creeping over him, gazing sorrowfully at the indifferent sky above and wondering when the blue would be forever replaced by black.

(…I'm… sorry…)


	15. Counteraction

__

The disclaimers are all located in the first chapter. Wow, over a hundred reviews and this is only the fifteenth chapter! I'm amazed you all appear to like this story so much…! Thanks to everyone who's left their comments; I hope this installment lives up to your expectations.

~ * Counteraction * ~

(Albert's dead, isn't he…? I left him to…)

With a bloodthirsty sneer curling his lips the viral cyborg lunged to meet Geronimo's charge, both of his arms transmuted into matching sets of nastily curved sable claws. As he closed the gap he ducked low to the ground, anticipating that the giant's first swing would fly overhead and leave him open for counterattack.

Britain wished he could close his eyes, not wanting to see the results of another vicious attack. The virus driving him would never allow such luxury, of course.

He didn't bother thinking about the irony that the concept of being able to shut his own eyes had become such a fervent desire. Britain was too busy trying not to relive the horror of watching his hands nearly cut Albert into shreds.

He didn't want to remember how the living arsenal's uniform had been reduced to ribbons, exposing the fresh array of crisscrossing gashes underneath… How Albert had slumped to the ground as he released his grasp and lain still, the only movement the quiet rustle of the grass settling round his limp body…

Reaching his next target, 007 ducked underneath Geronimo's first swing, and with a quick push off the ground brought his arms upward. The claws on his right arm gave a frightening screech as they bit through the front of his target's uniform, piercing the crimson fabric and into the armored skin beneath.

His upward progress abruptly halted with a faint shudder. The virus was incapable of expressing confusion, so the transformer's facial features instead went blank. According to its calculations it should not have met resistance, and indeed, it didn't feel as if its buried claws had met any obstruction, so why…

Tilting his head slightly upward, 007 beheld the tight grimace Geronimo's face had screwed up into, and then the infected cyborg comprehended his error.

As expected, the strongman had swung – but he hadn't led with his dominant right. That hand was now clamped over the back of the shapeshifter's neck, and with a shudder pulled him out and away from the rest of his muscular body, forcing the claws free.

It was almost a pity that the virus wasn't exactly sentient, as it meant that there was no chance of the oncoming left hook cutting short the obvious sentiment of "Oh shi…"

Geronimo released his hold on the Englishman's neck and let the force of his punch carry the infected cyborg out of his grasp, then briefly touched his now free right hand to his chest while watching Britain fly backward. He was fortunate: the maneuver might have gutted an ordinary human, but his specially constructed skin only bore three shiny new scratches where the longest of the claws had struck.

Britain traveled several feet before his body neared the ground. Instead of skidding, however, he suddenly twisted his arms back so that his now normal hands struck the earth first. Contorting in a distinctly inhuman fashion, the shapeshifter pushed off to one side and landed feet first, dropping into a crouch and pivoting to face his opponents once again.

Though his facial features reflected no sign of it, inside Britain was cheering. This time, the irony in congratulating Geronimo for cold-cocking him didn't exactly escape Britain's notice, but he ignored it, preferring to briefly lose himself in the delightful feeling of sheer exuberance washing over him.

(Yes! _Yes_yes_yes_yes_YES_! Take _that_ stupid virus! I knew my friends wouldn't let me down!)

Black Ghost probably was going into conniptions right about then, or so Britain figured. The insane overlord must have been counting on the bonds of loyalty between the rebels to become their downfall by turning the shapeshifter against his friends. There was no way he was expecting them to rally and actually resist.

Britain tried not to dwell on the idea that maybe the tyrant would be pleased enough with the mental torture that turning them against each other like this was inflicting. He also ignored the fact that his friends' resistance could have a fatal effect on his body -- taking him out along with the virus.

He didn't care what happened to him, so long as his friends survived.

He didn't want to think of Jet, who for all he knew was still laying back where he'd fallen, bashed and broken against the cliffside. Or of Albert, dying by inches of the countless gashes covering his frame… or Joe, collapsed behind Pyunma sans his right leg.

(No more. It's not going to happen anymore. They'll stop this…)

It didn't matter to Britain what the cost was, so long as it wasn't any of his former comrades who paid the price.

Geronimo stole a glance toward where Pyunma stood protectively in front of Joe's sprawled figure. The aquatic specialist still had his gun drawn, sights set on the infected cyborg. Nodding to himself, Geronimo's dark gaze swung back to the shapeshifter as Britain straightened.

The blankness was back in full force, the only movement in his face the flick of his dark pupils from side to side, scanning the battlefield. Britain stood completely still, arms limp at his sides, posture ramrod straight as the viral cyborg studied his surroundings. What he was looking for, his opponents couldn't judge.

He wasn't going to find any opportunity; Pyunma was going to make damn certain of that. The dull throbbing from his wounded shoulder went completely ignored by the experienced soldier. He kept his grip on his pistol firm, his sights level with the shapeshifter's chest.

All it would take to end this standoff would be a slight adjustment and a quick squeeze of the trigger. Planting a nice, clean shot smack in the center of Britain's heart would ensure the infected cyborg would fall and not bounce right back up for another attack.

(…While you're at it, why not raise your sights a little? You've got a clear shot to his head too, after all… that'd be even simpler…)

Pyunma took in a hissing breath at the familiar and not entirely unexpected voice manifesting in the back of his head. His instincts were flaring up, agitated at being suppressed for so long during this debacle. Now that he was following them again, it would be simple to finish the job by going all the way to the logical end of matters…

A single shot right in the forehead. An orderly kill. A mercy kill.

He'd done it before…

Grinding his teeth together, Pyunma squashed the memory rising unwelcome from the depths of his soul. Now wasn't the best time to start reminiscing about that…

(Why not? It's the perfect time, considering the circumstances…)

Telling his subconscious to cram its comparisons, Pyunma steeled his nerve and readjusted his grip, the blaster jerking slightly in his hands.

Britain's dark gaze fixed upon him, and Pyunma involuntarily inhaled sharply at the sudden attention. The shapeshifter had snapped his head about abruptly to face him, though this time, at least, it didn't cause his neck to bend at an unnatural angle.

Geronimo, anticipating his opponent's next move, started forward at the same time that Britain began his dash toward the other two cyborgs.

Pyunma braced, forcing his feet to dig a little more into the dirt, ensuring as much of Joe was safely behind him as possible. Then, grimacing --

(Up a little and you can still make that headshot.)

-- he adjusted his sights and fired.

The thin laser beam seared through the cerulean space and found its mark, forcing Britain to almost stumble as the blast caught him square in the knee. He didn't wince at the pain, but instead seemed to smirk as he slowed, his transforming right arm falling to his side and pulsing like it was caught between forms, unable to decide between its normal shape and that of the clawed monstrosity the viral cyborg favored so much.

Geronimo closed the remaining distance between them as the shapeshifter faltered. This time he did lead with his right, thick fingers balling into a fist that he aimed toward Britain's left shoulder. Though the opportunity was there for another punch like the one he'd landed before, he wasn't too eager to risk knocking his friend's head right off his shoulders.

Just as his fist came lancing down, Britain's head swiveled to face him, giving Geronimo a clear view of how the familiar features were twisted into a demonic grin.

Geronimo's eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating at the shuddering impact that followed.

~ * ~

Francoise gasped, delicate hands flying like frightened birds to cover her mouth. Her aqua eyes widened at the newest horror they relayed for the already terrified young woman to bear witness to.

Doctor Gilmore and Jet both looked sharply toward her at the sound, but neither asked for an explanation. The shock flooding her pale features was more than enough. Jet's face hardened into a determined set as he swung his legs off the cot and pushed off.

This time, he was able to hide his wince at the much duller stab of pain coursing up his left side.

He didn't breathe a word of his discomfort to the scientist standing beside him. To mention it would be acknowledging his own weakness. Jet knew that, if he clued the doc in that the rush job resulted in him still feeling a little bit of pain from his wounded leg, Gilmore'd have him laid back up on that cot in a second and wouldn't let him leave until everything was fixed.

Gilmore's solemn expression was hint enough that he wasn't too thrilled with how he'd yielded to Jet's demand in the first place. In his opinion, the belligerent young lad was being foolish, ignoring his own injuries out of concern for his friends.

…Though Jet wouldn't exactly explain his actions in that manner, that was the obvious reason for what he was doing.

Already the hawkish boy was heading out of the room, gun in hand. The only thing keeping him from literally flying out the window was that the booster in his left leg was currently disabled. He was planning on getting it fixed _after_ the immediate threat was over… provided, of course, they managed to emerge victorious.

Jet didn't even bid them goodbye; a curt nod of his head in Francoise's direction was the closest they got to a farewell. Then he was gone, running as fast as his newly repaired leg would allow, leaving Doctor Gilmore alone with the last two cyborgs.

Sighing heavily, Gilmore cast a furtive glance at his companions. He didn't have the heart to say anything to them; Francoise wasn't in any condition to sustain a conversation, and he didn't want to distract Ivan from whatever task the psychic infant was embroiled in.

Instead, he turned toward the computer. Jet had made a suggestion to him before, when he first proposed his brash plan to get back on the battlefield, and though he didn't agree with the young man's other actions, he had to admit this part at least was sound.

As he set down to work, Gilmore only hoped that his work toward a vaccine would not turn out to be in vain.

~ * ~

Chang had emerged from underground quickly, not wanting to spend any more time burrowing than was necessary to get past Britain. After all, he didn't know exactly where Albert might turn up, and the last thing he wanted was to miss him completely.

Now he was jogging, his own breath rasping softly in his ears as he ran, constantly looking from side to side as he ran in the hope of spotting his missing comrade soon.

It really wasn't helping that his imagination was playing nasty tricks on him, making him believe -- if only for a terrible moment each time -- that different pieces of the scenery were actually pieces of his friend, torn asunder the same way Joe's leg must have been. In passing, a fallen log here looked too much like a broken limb, a smooth boulder there too much like the top of his silver-gray-haired head.

Chang didn't want to think about it, wanted to just close his eyes and awaken from this nightmare and find everything exactly the way it was just yesterday. No Black Ghost machinations once again wreaking their lives, no virus taking over one of his best friends, and definitely no rampages leaving their rebellion in pieces…

A faint sound caused Chang to stop dead in his tracks. Could that have been the wind, or…?

Looking around frantically, he nearly jumped out of his skin when another vague noise that sounded much closer than the first rose from nearby. It was quiet, too hushed for his liking, barely audible over the whisper of the wind through the tall grass, but still -- undeniably a human groan.

"004?!" Chang looked around again, then hurried in the direction he thought he'd heard the moaning come from. "004, where…?"

He cut himself short as the answer to his question became apparent, and Chang's breath caught painfully in his throat as he found himself staring down the grassy slope a ways to where his friend had fallen.

Albert's uniform was completely shredded, and the exposed amalgamation of metal and skin underneath was not in much better condition. Gashes covered most of his torso, arms and legs, each cut lining up with the pitiful scarlet ribbons his attire had been reduced to. His chest heaved with his uneven breathing, which sounded like a labor his body was not wont to support much longer.

Somehow Chang found enough strength to get to Albert's side before his legs gave out, plopping down unceremoniously next to the living arsenal's head. Reaching out, he covered the German's left hand with both of his own, nearly crushing the fleshy fingers with his tight grip.

"Ze…004? Can you hear me?" He struggled not to panic, a battle he was rapidly losing as seconds ticked by without any response. "Come on, answer me!"

Moments of silence passed, then, just as Chang was about to descend into a full-fledged frantic attempt to shake the German into reacting, the fingers he grasped so tightly twitched and closed back over his in a faint, but reassuring return grip.

"……ze…ro…zer…o…s…six…?"

A rough cough punctuated the whisper, a grating sound that racked the injured cyborg's chest and caused Chang to wince sympathetically. But still the chef's heart leapt at the sound, soaring higher as Albert turned his head slightly, steel blue eyes refocusing on his anxious face.

"I'm here… I'm here…" Chang's breath hitched as he caught a near-sob.

Albert twitched, his body shifting to the left as his right hand made a weak attempt to push up off the ground. Without really thinking, Chang reached over and gently brought his partner's gunhand to rest on his chest, gripping both hands tightly with his own.

"Stay with me, Al," he pleaded, unconsciously slipping to the most informal version of the German's real name. "It'll be alright soon, I promise… The others are okay, okay? Pyunma, and Joe, and G-Junior, and G.B.… we're all going to be fine. We'll get through this, we always have, right?"

Albert made a little noise in the back of his throat; Chang couldn't tell if he was trying to agree or not. He wanted to believe it was the former, just like he wanted to believe what he was saying now was the truth.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay. We don't have to fight any more. It'll be alright, you'll see. We'll be fine… we'll make it…"

He was starting to babble, but Chang didn't care. The important thing right now was keeping Albert from giving up, to keep him grounded in the real world instead of slipping into oblivion. It wasn't like he could take the wounded German back to where the others were fighting, even if he was inclined toward going back to fight against Britain. All he could do now was ensure that, no matter how that played out, the living arsenal wouldn't pass away in the interim.

"It'll be okay… we'll make it… somehow we'll make it…"

~ * ~

"005!" screamed Pyunma.

The grisly scene appeared to have frozen just long enough that the dark-skinned cyborg's disbelieving navy eyes could memorize all the details. The bodies of the two combatants were locked together in the same manner they had been the instant both struck.

Geronimo's skin was strong enough to repel most attacks. Britain's earlier assault had left little more than bare scratches on the giant's massive chest, hardly even visible through the corresponding rips in the front of his jacket.

But there were ways in which his strength could be turned against him -- and so it was with momentum.

Just as Geronimo had been bringing his fist forward to strike Britain, the shapeshifter had raised his left arm, interposing it between himself and the oncoming attack. Only it wasn't in the form of an upraised hand, but a sturdy lance lined with miniscule spikes, the gleaming tip pointed directly toward the center of the fist crashing down toward him.

There hadn't been any chance for Geronimo to avoid it. All he could do was take the pain as his fist drove directly into the spear point and tore down its barbed shaft, carried by his own swing.

That was how they were locked together now, as Pyunma stood gaping and clutching his pistol with now violently shaking hands. From where he looked on, he could see that Britain was smirking, a contorted version of his usual smile -- the same one he'd sported when he tore off Joe's leg.

Geronimo, meanwhile, kept the agony he had to be feeling tightly contained, pursing his lips together. Only the way his dark eyes flashed gave some clue to the pain he felt at having his arm pinned.

Behind Pyunma, Joe stirred, weakly attempting to push off the ground and raise his head to see why his protector had screamed. What had happened to Geronimo that caused the combat specialist such terror…?

Britain turned to look at the pair, and the indifferent smirk his twisted face bore seemed to deepen. With a sudden shrug he wrenched his arm free, letting it tear out of Geronimo's arm and begin reforming as he dashed toward his next targets.

"Damn!" spat Pyunma, fumbling with his pistol.

Though it had threatened to slip from his nerveless fingers in the moment he first saw Britain's counterattack, the dark-skinned cyborg had enough sense not to completely lose his grip. Raising the streamlined silver barrel in front of him, Pyunma started firing immediately.

The first shot sailed through empty space; the second struck Britain a glancing blow on the left shoulder. The third was truer, and bit deep into the same joint the last had barely missed, but the shapeshifter didn't so much as flinch, and dodged nimbly to the right, forcing Pyunma to swivel in an attempt to track him.

Then he sprang, and Pyunma cursed again, hastily raising his sights to try and remain level with the airborne cyborg.

He squeezed off another shot; it clipped Britain on his right arm only to go ignored as his upraised limbs continued to reform. Gritting his teeth, Pyunma tracked upward, drawing a bead on the rapidly descending Britain's forehead, and --

(Take the shot!)

-- hesitated.

For an instant -- only an instant -- his mind played a deplorable trick where the face of his friend was not twisted by cruelty, but a cheerful smile. For that moment, Pyunma wasn't staring into the eyes of some virus-controlled cyborg, but of one of his trusted allies, one of his friends.

Then it passed, but too late for him.

Both of Britain's hands lanced downward, the left closing over soil, the right over his neck. For a split second, Pyunma's raised gun was almost touching the shapeshifter's forehead -- then it was knocked aside as both were driven to the ground by the force of his landing.

When Britain rose to his feet, he dragged Pyunma with him, while the combat expert's blaster lay useless where it had fallen.

Reflexively Pyunma tried to claw at the hand engulfing his throat, but Britain quickly restrained him, lashing his arms to his sides with the length of his reshaping left arm. Holding his prey level with him, Britain stared full into Pyunma's face, meeting the already clouding navy irises with his indifferent black gaze.

At his feet, Joe stirred and raised dim garnet eyes to behold the vision standing over him: of the shapeshifter holding the last of his defenders up by the front of his neck, slowly squeezing the last few scraps of resistance out of him.


	16. Resignation

__

The disclaimers are back in the first chapter. It isn't over quite yet… though we're close to it…

~ * Resignation * ~

"…G…g-rea…"

It hurt to talk, hurt worse to move, but Joe struggled to speak anyway, forcing his neck to support his head so that he could gaze up at those standing right in front of him. His vision was hampered both by the mists of pain and the dense brown bangs hanging over half of his face.

Perhaps it was a blessing that his blurring garnet eyes could not focus clearly; he couldn't see how Britain's face was distorted into a cruel smile, how the shapeshifter's fingers dug into Pyunma's throat leaving barely enough slack for his victim to breathe. Nor could he glimpse how the dark-skinned cyborg's navy irises, though already beginning to fog over, flicked down in his direction, reflecting more worry for his fallen leader than for himself.

All Joe could see was that Britain was holding Pyunma up off the ground, and that both of his friends were suffering.

"…G.B.…"

Pyunma's blaster lay where it had fallen, just out of reach. Joe's own lasergun was tucked safely away in its holster, resting against his hip over where his right leg should have been connected.

But when Joe willed his arm to move, his twitching fingers did not gravitate toward either weapon. Instead, he raised his trembling hand toward Britain and Pyunma, a weak gesture that might have been asking for mercy or giving it, pleading for aid or offering it.

"P…please… d-don't…"

Britain regarded him silently, his face reverting to a mask of stony indifference. Pyunma struggled weakly against the binds of the shapeshifter's transmuted hands, eyes squeezing shut as he pooled all his energy into his futile attempts to pull free. The whisper of his friend's entreaty added vigor to his attempts, yet still he couldn't muster the strength to break loose.

The virus's programming included a base system of ranking each of the rebel 00-numbers in terms of threat rating and prerogative. Prototype 009 was, naturally, considered the highest priority: his elimination was considered to be the key to bringing down the rest of the rebellion.

The main thing that had prevented the infected cyborg from taking him out immediately after snaring him was the presence of prototypes 004 and 008. The walking arsenal and combat specialist were also considered high-risk; between the former's weaponry and the latter's expertise, it seemed probable they could defeat the shapeshifter by working in tandem… Destroying their leader would likely remove any hesitation on their part towards using their abilities against their former ally.

So, instead, it chose to disable 009's acceleration mode in the most efficient manner possible and deal with the more immediate threats at hand.

Now there was no opposition to deal with. Prototype 004 had been soundly defeated and left to die alone; 008 was incapable of interfering. The potential threat of 005's strength had also been handled, for the wounds in his right arm surely rendered it inoperable, and the resulting feedback was certain to keep the giant preoccupied.

Geronimo uttered a low growl deep in his throat and moved to stand, left hand clamped over his right shoulder. The pain racking his arm was immense, and despite his efforts to block it out continued to shoot lightning jolts of agony through the rest of his body.

Britain craned his head back to give the struggling strongman what almost passed for a lazy glance, his indifferent expression only adding to the strange illusion.

His grip on Pyunma's neck went slack. Before Pyunma could draw a breath -- before his face could even start to reflect his surprise -- the shapeshifter pivoted and, in an almost gracefully smooth movement, flung the aquatic expert toward Geronimo.

They hadn't even impacted and collapsed to the ground before Britain turned back to face Joe. His right hand fastened around the Japanese lad's neck, his left curling around behind his back, supporting the boy in a mock embrace as he lifted him from the ground.

Joe winced, feeling the air slowly be driven from his lungs, but somehow found the strength to keep his eyes open. As his former friend slowly tightened his death grip on the younger cyborg, he gazed up into the Englishman's emotionless face with wavering ruby eyes.

"…G… gaah…"

His faltering attempts to speak fell on deaf ears, for Pyunma and Geronimo were too far away to hear, too stunned and injured to try and help. As for his assailant, his face began to twist into its cruel set, a victorious sneer contorting the familiar features.

And yet, despite this, all Joe could see above him was the face of his friend, the same one he attempted to speak to even as the world blurred around them.

"…G.B.……"

~ * ~

(Joe! God, _Joe!_)

Just as the life was trickling slowly out of the boy his body held in a cruel embrace, so too the last vestiges of hope faded from Great Britain.

What use was hope? The surest chance for salvation had vanished when the infected cyborg parried Geronimo's punch with the pointed tip of what was formerly his arm. If the strongest of their number hadn't been able to defeat him, and even Pyunma's shots failed to strike their mark, how could those that remained possibly survive?

Albert was probably dead by now. Jet as well, for all he knew… and it seemed Joe, Pyunma and G-Junior would not be long in joining them.

That left… who? Chang probably couldn't prove much of a threat, and though Francoise was a decent shot with her gun when she needed to be, could either of those softhearted cyborgs actually succeed where their stronger teammates had failed? Ivan was only a baby, and Doctor Gilmore, unless he happened to have some ultra-secret cyborg-eradicating bazooka stashed away in his lab that nobody knew about, certainly wasn't capable of offering much resistance…

If they didn't stop him, then what? All his friends would die, and Black Ghost would likely sweep in to pick up the pieces. He'd spend the rest of his existence serving the shadow origination, helping them secure their new world order, a worthless shred of the dead rebellion locked away inside a cyborg puppet…

(_…No!)_

Pulling all that remained of himself together, Britain concentrated on one single thought, in the vain hope that it might reach those he cared for and let them know his final wish.

(I want to die! Please, everyone, forget about trying to save me! Just let me… _just let me die!_)

~ * ~

…G.B.?

Every muscle in Ivan's tiny body tensed as a single thought stabbed through to his mind. The mental voice was shrieking, distorted by anguish and hopelessness, yet somehow he was able to recognize it. The connection he had been fighting for exploded, the barrier ripping away like silken curtains in a gale.

Ivan heard Britain's request, and the infant shuddered with horror at the realization that he was pleading for death.

Then he felt the shapeshifter slipping away again. Britain had no idea he'd been received; the effort was nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to give his friends permission to end his suffering before resigning completely to his fate. The youngest cyborg could feel though the weakening link Britain's submission, how convinced he was that this was the best he could accomplish, his only recourse allowing himself to slip into oblivion…

No you don't! I'm not losing you again!

Furiously, Ivan focused solely upon the wavering link, dropping all other tasks in his concentration. He wasn't paying any attention to the battlefield anymore; his fight was here, and if he lost this connection now, it would be impossible to restore it.

007! _007!_ G.B., answer me! I'm here for you! 

For a terrible moment, there was only silence. Ivan gathered his strength in preparation to give one final mental shriek, ready to expend what remained of his energy in this one task. Then, tentatively, a soft, incredulous whisper echoed from somewhere within the void.

[(…I…Ivan…?)]

Jubilation washed over the Russian infant, for suddenly he could feel Britain's spirit again, could all but see it flickering uncertainly through the shadows obscuring the rest of his body. Ivan hurtled toward that, engulfing the actor in a mental embrace as the connection solidified.

G.B.! I found you!

Disbelieving astonishment washed over him, radiating from all that remained of the shapeshifter as Britain comprehended the fact that the youngest cyborg was actually able to speak to him. The sensation of that mental contact was almost blissful for Ivan, after spending so long trying to break through, but he quickly clamped down hard on his own raging emotions.

Save the celebrating for after we get through this, G.B., he chided, though his words were actually directed more toward himself. Now, let's see what we can do about that vi…

[(Kill me.)]

What?!

[(You have to! If this keeps up, Joe will…)]

Though the connection, Ivan could almost see things as Britain did, through the shapeshifter's own eyes. A clear vision of Joe's face loomed large in his thoughts; already the lines of agony in the boy's face were beginning to smooth over with the serenity of impending death.

Ivan's heart leapt with fear, yet he forced himself to remain calm, intent upon ensuring that his friends' suffering would come to an end in a different manner.

G.B., calm down! If you help me, I might be able to bring the virus under control!

[(Might?)] Britain sounded completely despondent. [(If it just might, then it probably won't. Ivan, please… if you won't do it, then just tell them…)]

With that, he started to slip away again, back into the icy pit of despair. The connection between them faltered, weakening with his disheartenment, and Ivan frantically poured still more energy into keeping the bond true.

G.B., you can't…

[(It's too late… too late…)]

Rage flooded through the Russian infant. After all he'd expended trying to reach his friend… after all the horrors the others had suffered fighting him while trying not to harm the shapeshifter… everything they'd gone through to rescue him… Britain had given up. He wanted to die. He didn't want to live with the horror of what the virus had done -- was doing to his former comrades even now, as Joe languished in his grasp.

A part of Ivan understood. A part of him sympathized. Yet that part was overwhelmed by the blaze of outrage welling from inside, fueled by all the frustration of watching the others fight while he could do little else to aid them.

How _dare you!_

His anger was like a white-hot spear, and he could almost feel Britain quail as it pierced him to the very core of his being. Though Ivan recognized what he was doing and tried to stop, the fury boiling inside, having finally found a focal point, would not be denied its chance to manifest.

Joe and the others have been going through hell trying to save you, and now you're telling us to just give up?! _Forget it!_ I didn't spend all this time trying to contact you just so I could tell them that they have your _permission_ to kill you!

Britain whimpered, or gave the mental equivalent of it, and the pitiful sound cooled the edge of Ivan's anger. The infant cyborg felt a sharp pang of remorse: his outburst definitely hadn't helped matters. The former actor had already been through so much, and now any sort of exuberance he'd felt at regaining contact with one of his friends was torn asunder by his harsh recriminations.

There wasn't any more time to waste on apologizes, however, and Ivan forced his tone to remain calm and controlled as he spoke again.

007. I'm going to try and disable the virus from inside, but I need your cooperation. You have to fight back and reclaim control while it's weakened. Do you understand?

Britain didn't answer; if it wasn't for the connection Ivan would have thought that perhaps he wasn't able to hear him. The incoherent anger started to fester again, but this time Ivan was able to keep it contained.

007, if you don't try to fight back now, there's no way this will work. The virus will just keep using you to hurt the others.

[(Ivan… I… I left Albert to die, and I killed… Jet, too…)]

You don't know that! Ivan was stunned, belatedly realizing that Britain had no clue that the flight specialist was alive, if not unhurt. 

[(But… I can't… I can't…)]

He broke off into a wail, and suddenly Ivan's attention was refocused on what the horrified Englishman was watching: his hand tightening around Joe's neck, his other arm keeping the already helpless young man secure.

_Joe!_

Temporarily abandoning his efforts to convince Britain to try and rebel, Ivan turned the bulk of his talent against the virus, attempting to bring it under control from the inside. As if aware of the rebellion, the infected cyborg seemed to put more strength into his hold on the leader, intent upon finishing his task.

Dimly, Ivan could hear Britain sobbing quietly. He wanted to scream at the actor for assistance, but didn't dare divert his attention from combating the infection. If his slip-up cost Joe his life, the Russian child knew he'd never be able to forgive himself.

But without support, his chances of bringing the virus under control before it was too late for their leader were ebbing away just as quickly as the Japanese cyborg's life.

Then an explosion of sharp, biting pain ripped through him, and Ivan reeled, momentarily stunned.

For an instant he thought, crazily, that the virus had some sort of defense against even this sort of assault, and he'd fallen victim to a failsafe prepared by some savvy programmer.

Then, as his mind cleared and things returned to focus, Ivan realized that the pain hadn't been his at all -- instead, it came from Britain.

The virus was capable of forcing the body it controlled to act despite whatever injuries it collected. Though Pyunma had shot it several times with his laser, it blocked out most of the pain from those wounds, rerouting it instead to reach the last shreds of the original occupant.

However, the blast that had torn into his left shoulder now not only aggravated its prior wounds, but had actually been concentrated enough to tear a hole through the pliable joint beneath. The red fabric was torn completely away, exposing a smoldering, rough-edged gash where the laser had burnt through.

The virus was still incapable of expressing emotions, but the shapeshifter's eyes seemed somehow colder and harsher than before as he stared past Joe's pale face, over the quaking shoulders of his victim, to behold his assailant.

Jet was half-crouching, heavily favoring his uninjured leg, where he'd arrived on the battlefield. He steadied his pistol with both hands, arms rigid, glaring over the glowing barrel at the shapeshifter and his helpless leader. Under the shadows cast by his spiky orange bangs, his sharp copper eyes practically glowed with hatred.

He was, to put it mildly, completely pissed off.

The only thing preventing him from getting a better shot -- or firing again and again until his enemy fell and never got back up -- was the fact that most of the shapeshifter's body was concealed behind the weakened cyborg he was choking. The best he'd been able to manage was that clear shot to his shoulder.

And now the infected cyborg was aware of his presence, so his chances of getting a better shot seemed slim to none.

Still, Jet kept his gun trained on the transformer, watching intently, hoping for an opening. If his opponent made any sudden moves -- if Joe died in that hideous mockery of an embrace -- then the hawk was going to kill him.

[(…J…Jet…?)]

Ivan tensed at the soft whisper from Britain. With a sudden, sickening clarity, the youngest cyborg realized that everything hinged on how G.B. reacted to this turn of events.

He'd been begging for death, and now here was Jet, completely willing to oblige his request. Britain had to be aware of this; it was written all over the redhead's face, was evident in how he held his blaster.

Ivan didn't dare say anything, though a piece of him privately shrieked that he needed to try and convince Britain not to take that path, simple as it seemed. Any words from him might be the impetus needed to bring him back from the edge of oblivion -- or send him into it.

For a second that, for the Russian infant, seemed to stretch into eternity, there was only silence in the void. Then, hesitantly, without a sound or word to the psychic cyborg, Britain made his choice.

The bond between them faltered, then solidified once again, and as a new sense of determination and hope that wasn't born from his own mind grew within Ivan, the child felt a brief burst of euphoria.

Right… Don't give up, G.B. I won't either…

Strengthened by the fresh resolve, Ivan concentrated all his remaining energy. In his mind's eye, he pictured the virus as a veil, a barrier enshrouding his friend's spirit and cutting him off from within, ensnaring him within the prison of his body.

Then, with a burst of effort, he pierced to the heart of that web and tore it apart, brushing it aside and forcing it away.

He couldn't destroy the programming outright, but with the support of the rightful owner of this vessel, was able to restore enough control to Britain to disable the worst of the virus's intent.

There was no sound to accompany it, no physical sign of the silent struggle, yet Ivan felt a burst of utter triumph as the infection curbed and caved under his relentless pressure. He pushed it back as far as he could, willing the accursed thing to shred and shatter, breaking apart like spiderwebs.

Then, as the last of his power ebbed out of him, Ivan slumped forward in his basket, completely exhausted. The connection ebbed away, this time released of his own free will, for he had no more strength to sustain it.

"001?!"

Doctor Gilmore caught a glimpse of Ivan's sudden collapse, and pushed away from his computer, rising to his feet. Francoise looked up sharply as well, aqua irises shimmering with fresh tears as she turned to stare at the child. Before either could rush over to the bassinet, however, Ivan managed to muster enough wisps of strength to offer both his reassurance.

I'm… fine, doc…

"Ivan, what…?" Concern filled Gilmore's voice; the infant's telepathy was so faint it seemed more like a whisper than anything else. The child was only managing the barest touch of minds, and he wondered what on earth had debilitated the poor babe so.

…fine… just… help… the others… recover…

With that half-formed request, Ivan fell into a deep slumber.

~ * ~

Britain's body was shaking violently, raked with vicious shudders, and Joe slipped from nerveless fingers as his hands reverted to normal, falling limp at his sides.

It was the opportunity Jet was waiting for. Finally, he had a clear shot…!

But something stayed his hand. Instead of firing, the red-haired hawk merely stared at the convulsing shapeshifter and wondered what the hell was happening. It looked like he was having some sort of seizure -- was this because of the virus?

Joe slumped to the soft grass, his single leg folding beneath him. His head started to loll forward, then suddenly he blinked, some form of awareness returning to his dull garnet eyes. Fuzzily, through the clearing haze of his vision, he gazed up at Britain as the shapeshifter trembled.

The Englishman's legs gave out, folding at the knees suddenly, and he fell, nearly collapsing directly on top of the brown-haired lad. As Joe stared, comprehension beginning to dawn on his pale face, his gaze fixated on Britain's face.

Britain met his eyes directly for a moment, and for the first time in too long, Joe saw emotion -- life -- filling the shapeshifter's eyes.

Then they closed, and Britain sagged forward in a boneless collapse, his head landing roughly on Joe's shoulder.

The impact sent a painful jolt through the younger cyborg's body, but it went completely ignored by the boy.

Instead, as somewhere behind him came the sound of uneven footsteps and Jet's voice rising in a flurry of questions, Joe buried his face in Britain's corresponding shoulder and let the tears he'd felt building slowly in his eyes fall.


	17. Termination

__

The disclaimers are where they've always been, in the first chapter. This is the final chapter of 'Metamorphosis'; a continuation is already in the works, so please don't kill me for ending it here. It just seems right to me, somehow, to end this in the manner in which this closes out… Thank you to all my loyal readers for your patience and feedback; I appreciate your comments and suggestions. But you're hardly here to read my ramblings, so…

~ * Termination * ~

The steady thrum of the Dolphin's engines, usually a barely audible backdrop to the conversations held so often by its crew, was almost deafening to the small band of cyborgs gathered in the cockpit. The spacious command center seemed much larger than usual, too, though the reason for that was obvious: less than half the seats were filled.

Pyunma was seated at the helm, and his dark irises seemed deeper and bluer than the expanse of ocean stretching out into shadowed infinity before him. Only the thick panes of reinforced glass and steel serving as windows separated him from the watery depths -- and there was almost a sense that not even those truly kept the young man out of his true element.

Indeed, there was almost a regal bearing about the dark-skinned lad, a sort of serene air that was only shattered when one took particular notice of his tattered attire.

Pyunma still hadn't changed clothes. His uniform was filthy from the grime of the day's skirmishes, flecks of dirt and stains ground into the red fabric. Through the charred edges of a hole in the left shoulder peeked the stark white bandages that had been wrapped over the wounded joint.

It didn't bother him. Pyunma knew he was one of the more fortunate ones.

Seated next to him, glaring off into the darkness of the ocean instead of at the panels he was supposed to be monitoring, was Jet. Not that Pyunma felt like scolding the fiery redhead for his inattention. He already knew where the hawk's thoughts circled.

(Running away again…)

Jet didn't voice his thoughts; he didn't need to, for they made themselves clear through the firm set to his jaw, the fierce glitter in his sharp bronze eyes. The notion rankled deep within the combative cyborg, and displeasure and frustration radiated from his tense figure in heated waves.

There was no helping it. No matter how positive a spin you attempted to put on matters -- a difficult enough task in itself -- there was no circumventing the fact that they were at a serious disadvantage right now.

Nearly all of the cyborgs sported some sort of injury from the battles they'd fought. Only those who hadn't been involved in direct combat had escaped the ordeal without any physical wounds. Some had gotten off a lot better than others.

The least injured of their number -- relatively speaking -- were gathered there.

Behind the pair at the helm, seated at a station hugging the right wall, was Francoise. The only female of their team had never set foot on the battlefield that day… or, at least, not in a literal sense. Her enhancements, however, had 'blessed' the girl with a clear view of what was happening. She'd been able to do little more than monitor the progress of the chaos as it slowly worked closer to the house, slowly tearing herself apart inside at the thought of her own helplessness.

Now Francoise wondered, as she gazed into the shadows of the sea spreading before her aquamarine gaze, if her experience reflected, in some small way, the sort of anguish that Britain himself might have been going through from where he watched the fighting progress.

(No,) she swiftly decided, folding a delicately trembling hand against her chest while willing it to stop shaking. (No, I can't imagine how horrible that must have been for him… to go through…)

The light in her eyes dimmed as she dropped her gaze to the panels she sat before, thick lashes veiling the shimmering blue-green irises.

Across from her, Chang leaned back in his seat and craned his neck to look at the girl. Letting his chin fall back down to his chest with a sigh, the chef then turned toward the massive man sitting to his immediate right.

"Are you sure you're doing okay, 005?" he queried of the strongman, face screwing up with concern. "Maybe you should go talk with Doctor Gilmore, if…"

"It's alright, my friend," and Geronimo spared the rotund chef a vague, fleeting smile before his features regained their usual stoic bearing. "He has more than enough to worry over right now. I can bear this far better than the rest of our friends can."

Chang dropped his gaze to the floor then, resisting as best he could the urge to glance at the giant's right arm. The thick limb had been bandaged, covered with layers of gauze and medical tape. The chef hadn't gotten a clear look at what lay underneath, and nobody was inclined to relate what exactly had happened, but to be completely honest that sat alright with the firebreather.

He didn't want to know exactly what Britain might have done to render Geronimo's right hand more or less inoperable.

The strongman had gathered his wits eventually, and shrugged off enough of his pain that he was able to assist the others in preparing for their exodus in the Dolphin. It was clear his wounds troubled him, though Geronimo would rather die from overexerting himself helping them before admitting his weakness in this time of need.

All in all, Geronimo considered himself one of the lucky ones because he was still able to function on his own, which was more than what some of his other friends could claim…

The giant gazed toward the helm, at the pair sitting at the ship's front, and the solid set of his mouth turned briefly into a slight frown. Those two were injured as well, though both denied the seriousness of their wounds and attempted to shrug it off in the same manner he was.

That sort of behavior he could almost forgive from Pyunma, but for Jet it was another matter. Geronimo had strictly commanded the red-haired hawk to remain behind and concentrate on getting repaired. His advice, clearly, had gone ignored -- or, at the very least, reinterpreted.

But if he scolded Jet for ignoring his injuries and endangering himself in order to try and assist the others, Geronimo was well aware he would be a hypocrite. The circumstances may have been slightly different, but their primary motivations were the same.

Jet, like himself, was only doing what he thought was best for the sake of the team. That Geronimo could find no fault in.

(My friends…) Geronimo's dark pupils swiveled back to the sea as his eyelids drifted shut in silent contemplation. (We must survive this trial in the same way we have all others… Black Ghost cannot be allowed any sort of victory…)

~ * ~

Gilmore leaned back and heaved a deep sigh, allowing his exhaustion-darkened eyes to squeeze shut for a few precious moments of rest. The scientist refused to give himself much of a break, however: there was still much work to be done before he could consider taking a rest in good conscience.

When he reopened his eyes, he spared a glance over to the bassinet resting beside him. Though he was ashamed to admit it even privately to himself, Gilmore had to acknowledge that he felt a little envious of the youngest of the cyborgs.

Ivan had already done so much; the psychic had truly earned the peaceful slumber in which he now resided. There was no judging when the infant would awaken; his typical fifteen-day cycle notwithstanding, the little Russian had expended a great deal of energy over the events of the last few hours before falling asleep.

Gilmore still had a great deal to attend to, however, and his tired gaze shifted from the sleeping child to take in the other occupants of the room.

The infirmary on board the Dolphin was actually quite spacious, with room for several patients at once. Three of the cots were currently occupied, their residents also lost in the blissful freedom of pain that unconsciousness offered.

Rising to his feet, Gilmore crossed over to the closest of the three, carefully examining for anything he might have possibly overlooked in his haste to get his patients in stable condition.

Albert was the most heavily bandaged of the lot; the memory of how the silver-haired German looked when Gilmore first laid eyes upon him send shivers down the scientist's back. Surely no human could have ever survived so many deep lacerations over his body -- though it was debatable whether Albert would consider himself lucky to have survived such an ordeal.

So long as Gilmore proceeded carefully, however, there would soon be no signs of all the terrible gashes that lined his chest, arms and legs. Indeed, there should be no scars at all -- at least, none in the physical sense.

Lying in the cot adjacent to Albert's, pure white sheet pulled up to his shoulders so that it looked for all the world like he was simply sleeping, was the leader of the cyborgs. Joe's chest rose and fell with surprisingly even breaths, adding to the illusion that the lad was merely resting, the nightmare long ended.

Gilmore gazed sorrowfully upon the boy's deceptively serene face, avoiding looking down to where there was a noticeable dip in the sheets as they settled over the contours of his body.

When they'd gone to retrieve the others for their hasty departure, Francoise had scurried off for a bit without explaining what she was doing. She hadn't needed to say anything when she returned, and in fact remained silent, cradling the torn remains of Joe's right leg in her arms.

Was the limb salvageable? Gilmore had looked it over briefly, but couldn't make a solid judgement right away. He'd have to rebuild the structure from scratch, of course, but if they were fortunate he might be able to retrieve certain key parts from the wreckage that would make the reconstruction much easier.

Either way, his condition was stabilized, same as Albert's was. Neither was in particularly life-threatening danger anymore; their survival was no longer in doubt.

Gilmore only wished he could say the same for Great Britain.

The shapeshifter lay on the cot closest to the computers hugging the inside wall of the ship, nearly motionless save for the occasional shudder. His mouth and nose were covered by a facemask that provided air laced with a sedative. His arms and legs were held in place by carefully secured restraints.

Though it pained Gilmore to do this, it was imperative to ensure Britain's safety until they were absolutely certain the virus was completely eradicated. The scientist was currently working on a vaccine that would hopefully clear the infection from the transforming cyborg's system.

Sweat beaded on Britain's forehead; Gilmore placed a soft cloth over the actor's brow, absently noting how he could almost feel heat radiating through the pliant folds. He sincerely hoped this fever would break soon; that the worst of this ordeal was behind them now that the virus was apparently in remission.

Even if this was the case, however, Gilmore still had plenty of other concerns weighing heavily on his mind.

There was no judging what effect the virus had wrought on Britain's psyche. Only the former actor knew what sort of horrors he'd undergone while his body went on its rampage -- and somehow Gilmore doubted that, even if the Englishman had been conscious at the moment, he would be willing to relate just what had occurred.

Another deep sigh came from the scientist as his fingers strayed upward to gently massage his own brow.

It was all too possible that Britain would not recover from his ordeal, in more ways than one. There were too many things the scientist still didn't understand, too many unanswered questions. His research would only take him so far; in several aspects he would still be working blind no matter how much he uncovered.

His work didn't exactly lend itself to exploring the more purely emotional side of matters.

Still, it couldn't be helped. Gilmore's face tightened with resolve as he gazed back at his three patients, determined to do all he could to help his extended family. No matter what the future brought, he would continue to do everything in his power to aid them.

This was the path he had chosen in life, and one he walked gladly. He acknowledged the shadows of his own past without fear, willing to face the darkness while following the brighter road he'd chosen.

He set to work; there was still much he hoped to accomplish before his own body's exhaustion forced him into a fitful, restless sleep.

~ * ~

The plan had failed.

Cold sweat trickled down his face in rivulets. Doctor Tenkan didn't bother wiping it away.

It was a true pity that so many vital details had been left in the care of foolish soldiers and glory-blinded egomaniacs. Pity how they outranked the scientists that worked so feverishly, meticulously, to create the plans those duller minds would then screw up. In their attempts to bring down the cyborgs, the human factor was the one that most often went overlooked.

Tenkan was aware that this was where he, too, had failed.

Rising within him now was the very base instinct of self-preservation, the bestial desire for survival warring with the scientist's methodical logic and terrible understanding.

__

Run. There had to be someplace to escape to, some way of leaving this sterile laboratory behind and getting to the outside world, to safety, before…!

But it was an exercise in futility. The organization was everywhere, the shadow clinging to every aspect of society. Even if he somehow managed to leave this base behind, it would only be delaying the inevitable.

Even the thought of leaving the room behind faded away when he felt more than heard the faint whisper of displaced air, felt the temperature in the cold laboratory drop several degrees -- or was that an illusion caused by the faint tremor running along the base of his spine…?

It hardly mattered. In the next moment, his world reduced to the point of the cool barrel resting against the back of his neck.

"You failed me."

His commander's sibilant hiss only added to the frost that seemed now to be filling the sealed chambers. Tenkan wanted to swallow against the pressure rising in his throat, but the movement seemed pointless. Besides, it would only serve to drive the icy point at the back of his head deeper into his skin.

He should have been stammering a reply, Tenkan dimly thought, his mind casting about furiously as a million thoughts passed in the space of a breath. He should be attempting to explain why it wasn't his fault, how others were to blame for things not going according to plan. If only they'd listened, it would have been different…

But such things would have been pointless, and Tenkan had no use for irrelevant gestures.

A dull roar echoed in his ears, and for an instant the icy cold was replaced by fire ripping through his throat--

Bulbous golden eyes glowed in the dim light of the pistol firing, glittering briefly as they watched the lifeless husk sink to the floor. A black-lined cape flared proudly behind firmly set shoulders as he turned away, no longer interested in this pitiful mound of wasted flesh.

A cruel chuckle issued from Black Ghost's eternally skeletal grin. The project had not been a total loss, all things considered… but that didn't mean he felt obliged to spare that scrawny scientist's life. After all, Tenkan had not lived up to his part of the bargain, so why should he?

Ah, well; there were other projects to attend to, and more plots to assassinate the rebel 00-numbers waiting in the wings. It seemed his work was never done…


End file.
